


Babington & Esther Drabbles

by MissSally



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, death of (very) minor character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26478292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSally/pseuds/MissSally
Summary: Please forgive the absolutely shocking title.I have so many odds and ends of tales for Babington and Esther and so I thought I'd put them all down in one place.Some are very long, some are a little angst-y, some are all smut.
Relationships: Lord Babington/Esther Denham
Comments: 99
Kudos: 94





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry. Apart from his mother who calls him Frederick, and his sister who calls him Freddy which he hates. But then he calls her Tussle which she loathes. So . . . everyone's happy.
> 
> Babington's Mother - French-Austrian and alive.
> 
> Babington's Father - English and deceased.
> 
> Deacon - Babington's butler in London. They have been through ALOT together (#spoilers for later - hopefully.)
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House  
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate

OH, just FYI!

This begins just after Edward's outburst at the Midsummer Ball. But in this neither Babington nor Sidney return to the ball after removing Edward and so Esther and Babington do not have their 'I don't give a damn what anyone thinks.' etc moment. 

* * *

As Sanditon burns she pulls away from Charlotte's comforting words and kindness, returns to Sanditon House and promises her shamed and tear-stained self that she will not be a victim.

The night is long, and her shame fuels an anger and rage at herself as well as Edward. Finally, as the glow of fire becomes the glow of dawn, she finds a clarity.

‘You foolish girl!’ Her Aunt is all irritation and incomprehension. ‘You are running away to France to stay with some second twice removed niece of my first husband when there is a perfect gentleman and lord _here_ just waiting to marry you if you would let him ask!’

But to do so would be to be rescued. It would be so easy, but she cannot allow another to become complicit in what she feels she has broken and tainted. Her mind is too crowded, her heart too confused.

‘Let me go, Babington,’ she tells him when he comes to see her, stopping him saying the words that Edward’s outburst and the fire had already delayed. ‘Think of yourself, your family. I must go.’

‘Esther, is there nothing I can say?’ He looks at her. He would never think to stop her, but this he must tell her. ‘You must know I lov-‘

Her hand is flying to his mouth to stop the words, in this moment she is past caring about propriety after all that this man has heard and seen of her life. His lips are warm and soft against her fingers, his breath quickening with surprise.

‘Please, Babington.’ Just for a moment she lets him see how broken she feels and hopes he understands. She is not running away; she is leaving to try and find some control of her own life. ‘ _Please.’_

Very gently, he takes her hand from his lips and holds it in his for a moment, running his thumb lightly over her fingers. Then, bows deeply to press a soft lingering kiss on to her knuckles.

‘I wish you a safe journey, Miss Denham.’

* * *

He knows Lady Denham would tell him if he asked, let him know where he may contact her. But he does not ask. She has had a lifetime of others speaking and deciding for her.

He has seen what a broken heart can do, felt an edge of its blunt darkness before, and he fights against it. For a short while he succeeds somewhat by committing himself wholly to Parker’s need for investors. If he can fix that then maybe he can fix himself. But Parker’s engagement to Mrs Campion and the light that goes out of his friend’s eyes as he tells him threatens to engulf him in his own despair.

* * *

‘When is Miss Denham returning?’ Parker’s question comes out of nowhere and it is then he suddenly knows. He has always known.

She has no intention of returning.

More wine is ordered, and it is not until the next day that Parker realises his friend never answered his question.

* * *

He suspects Crowe is not fooled that the increasingly excessive nights of wine and gambling are solely to help Parker forget his impending marriage. Nevertheless he hopes he hides his heartbreak behind Parker’s and he encourages the carousing so that maybe just one more night away from his thoughts will mean a letter from her will be waiting for him when he wakes to reality the next day.

Crowe, not always watching but ever watchful, divides the last of the wine between their three glasses and wonders, not for the first time, why it is his friends always seem to choose Venus over Fortuna. All goddesses are fickle but at least his only requires one person’s risk, not two.

These months filled with callously late evenings mean, more often than not, he is waking sometime in the stretch of hours between mid-morning and early afternoon on the settee in his study. His head splintering, his stomach rolling, clothes stinking with brandy, sweat and smoke.

Deacon rapidly loses any sympathy he may have felt. The normally intelligently efficient butler achieves a way of working with an icy impassive detachment that has to be seen to be believed.

He knows he cannot continue like this.

He tries to think more on what he does have and can do rather than on whom he misses.

By the time of Parker’s wedding, he has given up drinking to excess. If nothing else, it has vastly benefited his gambling winnings.

Deacon begins to thaw in increments.

She remains in his thoughts and heart. More than he will admit even to himself.

* * *

It takes her a long time to feel free of Edward’s influence and she builds her new life gradually, warily. Her Aunt writes to her often of everything Sanditon. She replies with anything but includes little of herself as she cannot write of what she feels she does not know.

She tries to look forward.

She makes herself accept invitations to suppers and attend events when all she wants to do is walk alone for miles to some where she will never be found.

But she looks forward and tries never to look back.

Slowly, Sanditon begins to fade in her thoughts. As it dims, so too do the final whispers of Edward and her heart and self become her own. Sanditon and her life with Edward become things of long ago that once were and she is glad.

But occasionally, she finds herself thinking of that speeding carriage drive along an endless edge where sand met sea. And she tilts her head towards an imaginary breeze and is for a moment free of all, more herself than she has ever been.

* * *

It takes the Comte more than a year of knowing Miss Denham for him to feel that she is beginning to look at him without a guard edge on her gaze.

It is two years before she refers to him as a friend rather than acquaintance.

The Comte knows that there are things about her that he will never hear of just as she understands there are memories within him of wars and revolutions that he will never speak of.

They debate literature, argue over science and philosophy her cleverly light on her feet and fast with intelligence against the pragmatism of his deep intellect.

A deep, loving friendship and close companionship grows between them.

She is content, her heart peaceful. A life of her own choosing.

* * *

He watches over the years as Parker’s despair mellows into quiet acceptance and he thanks his good fortune that he will never have to marry. But he is mindful of what is required of him and acquits himself to ensuring that the inheritance he will leave an heir of his blood, if not of his creation, has longevity and stability. He looks to invest wisely, cautiously. His country estate, always flourishing, now benefits more from his presence and active interest in improvement and innovation.

He works hard. He revels in the company of his friends and family.

He takes more interest in politics, now not only attending the House but observing more debates, attending rallies and speeches.

For a while he enjoys a mutually pleasurable distraction in the bed of a handsome Duchess. Widowed and wealthy and her duty of heir, spare and third fulfilled, the Duchess lives as she chooses and values discretion and independence.

He is content.

* * *

Sanditon has prospered. A week-long gala for its five-year anniversary is planned and her Aunt writes to insist that she get up a party and come. The Comte’s sister and her Aunt’s French niece are both delighted and start planning a two-month sojourn with their families almost immediately.

‘You have not been back, are you not intrigued?’ The Comte smiles at her irritation.

‘My Aunt sends news so often I feel I could draw the town in detail without needing to set foot there.’ She is dismissive.

‘My sister and her daughters are set on visiting London and Bath also.’ The Comte says as she comes and sits beside him.

‘But the timing is so inconvenient. There is so much to do before we move to Austria.’

‘My uncle’s estate will still be there. There shall doubtless be legal papers to sign for the inheritance and entail, but I can return early if necessary.’

‘Can _we_ return early?’ she asks. Her husband laughs and takes her hand.

* * *

She surprises herself at how much she enjoys herself. They spend the first two weeks in Bath before travelling to Sanditon. The town is quickly set aglow with the glamour of the foreign visitors, their elegant manners and exquisite clothes.

Her Aunt complains about the bother of having Sanditon House so full of guests but her fond tone and wide smiles give her away.

News reaches them that the Comte is required, as expected, to return within the month.

‘You shall not take her too, brother! I will not hear of it!’ The Comte’s sister is pleading with her to stay and come to London for the month when they move on.

‘Neither will I as I have not asked,’ the Comte is all amused calm before his sister’s flurry of demand. He turns to her. ‘If you wish to return, my darling, I shall be delighted to have your company. If you wish to stay my sister will be equally, if not even more, delighted.’

She smiles as her husband winks at her and is then engulfed in her sister-in-law’s excitement as she confirms she will stay.

* * *

The week culminates in a Grand Anniversary Ball at the Sanditon Assembly Rooms.

He rarely visits the town now but attends tonight as a favour to Parker. Eliza Parker greets him wreathed in the triumph of her husband’s family and her investments and is quick to boast of all the attendees and success of the celebrations.

He hears more of her in these moments than he has in the past five years.

The Assembly Rooms quiet for a moment as the arrival of Lady Denham’s party is announced.

He sees her. The years apart have changed nothing, he is as much in love with her now as he has ever been.

She sees him. Her peaceful heart is shattered as she realises with an instant certainty, desperate and uncontrollable, that she loves him.

‘I thought Eliza said just now he was a Marquis?’ Crowe is idly watching him watch the new arrivals.

‘Who?’ His disinterest immediately gives him away. A vague gesture of indication from Crowe invites him to comment. ‘No, will be a Marquis upon his move to Austria.’

‘Comte or Marquis.’ Crowe shrugs. ‘I do not recall even hearing about the marriage.’ Casually he pushes his friend’s edges. ‘I would have sent some crystal and felicitations.’

He had heard a rumour she was married.

‘Or perhaps something floral.’ Crowe presses further, brutally testing what he thinks he just saw and heard in the pretence. ‘Lilies maybe?’ Funereal flowers for a wedding.

‘Hmm.’

‘More apt perhaps,’ Crowe mutters, proven correct. But Crowe knows it is a tragic, not triumphant, discovery.

He finds the noise in the room is suddenly deafening and startles when Crowe claps him on the shoulder, his tone deceptively lazy with boredom. ‘Wine and the card tables? Shall we?’

* * *

They meet. He assumes a mantle of polite easy charm. She is all guarded poise and clever wit. Both are glad of the distraction provided by the presence of her husband and family.

His French-Austrian mother means he finds a common ground with the Comte and is then intrigued to discover a fellow politico in the Comte's brother-in-law. He overhears her young nieces gossiping about Crowe, thinking they would not be understood if they speak in German, he proves them wrong and offers to introduce them making them blush and giggle prettily.

‘May I have this dance, Comtesse?’ He speaks without thinking.

‘I should be delighted, Lord Babington.’ She regrets her choice of words immediately and rushes her smile of acceptance. ‘Thank you.’

It is a disaster, albeit well concealed by both. The contact is at once too much and not enough. The closeness of his body to hers almost cruel.

She avoids his eyes and keeps her movements tight with precision.

He keeps their conversation, such as it is, limited to the music and the room and does not ask her for a second dance.

Neither of them sleep that night.

* * *

Her party readies themselves for the move on to London.

The Comte takes his leave of them to travel back to France. She wishes she had chosen to return with him whilst the plans were being made but lies to herself that it is just being in Sanditon that has unsettled her and hopes that London will be as distracting as Bath.

Eliza Parker proves to be a source for a never-ending stream of recommendations and invitations and a lively daily exchange of innumerable notes and letters starts to flow between the Comte’s sister and Bedford Place.

So varied are the individual wants and plans of their party that the hallway table of their rented townhouse becomes crowded with notes indicating where each member, or members, of the families might be found for the next few hours, or days.

Something she refuses to acknowledge makes her uneasy about Mrs Parker’s invitations and so she always politely declines. Instead she walks in the parks or attends debates and rallies with her brother-in-law who, knowing her nature and enquiring mind, does not question it and welcomes her company.

It is at just such a rally and when they are mid-way through a heated discussion with one another that her brother-in-law pauses in his appraisal and sees someone in the crowd.

‘Lord Babington! Come, help us decide on the merits or otherwise of the last speaker. We are quite in opposition.’

‘Do you wish for judge to decide or student to instruct?’ He laughs.

‘Student,’ says her brother in law, keen to test and further explain his opinion.

‘Judge,’ says she at the same moment, anxious to be away from this man who so disorientates her heart and mind. 

‘Ah, perhaps we should agree to leave the field with honours even, Esther?’ Her brother-in-law smiles. ‘Let us find some refreshment instead. You will join us of course, Lord Babington?’

She fumbles to find her guard and poise.

He encourages the conversation but listens more than he talks.

* * *

Her afternoon in the park is disrupted by a rainstorm and, finding her umbrella unreliable, she hurries to the treeline in hope of some shelter.

‘Comtesse?’ His heart reacts faster than his head.

‘Lord Babington.’ She is unprepared, exposed. She loves him. 

‘Might I offer you an escort?’ He indicates his umbrella and glances at her own treacherous article, folded and useless in her hand

‘There is no need,’ she looks away from him and gestures optimistically at the clouds. ‘I am sure it will pass.’

‘At least to the carriages?’ He offers. He glances towards the gates and then back to her. He loves her.

He waits. Fearing he will be dismissed. Hoping he will be dismissed.

She looks at him for a long moment.

She has spent so much energy defending herself against his presence that she has not realised how much she has missed his friendship. She finds herself wondering if he can still make her laugh like he used to, whether his mind is as deceptively quick and heart as thoughtful as she now remembers them to have been.

‘I fear finding an available Hackney in this rain would be beyond the feat of us mere mortals, Lord Babington.’ Then her wide, beautiful smile edged with laughter, and she is Esther.

He laughs and steps forward. ‘Let us try, Comtesse.’

She is on his arm, close against him under the shelter of the umbrella and he is asking her of her time in London and Bath and laughing with her over some absurdity or other. Their initial brisk pace slows as their kinship of old is finally given chance to fly and reignite. And it is just so very easy for a while.

A carriage comes along the pathway, speeding through the puddles and rain and he immediately turns into her to prevent the long splashes from reaching her. She finds herself against his chest and feels his heart is pounding as much as her own and she looks up at him.

For the first time in five years they truly see one another.

The carriage passes and they step apart. It has been a matter of seconds, entirely nothing, but it has been enough.

He hands her up into a Hackney moments later.

‘Thank you, Babington.’

‘Good afternoon, Esther.’

* * *

It takes her days of silent, angry denial and accusation and nights of sleepless agitation to confront the thoughts in her head.

There is love and companionship.

But then there is love and belonging and soul mate and the man who has unknowingly taken possession of her. She battles all her thoughts, the guilt, the consequences and still finds him at the end of all.

And she believes, _knew_ for a length of an immeasurable moment, that he loves her too.

* * *

A dinner party at Bedford Place, long planned by Eliza with the entire Parker family in attendance. The Comte’s sister brooks no refusals from anyone and all commit to accept the invitation.

He thinks he does not react when Parker insists he and Crowe attend the evening also. He has not seen her since the afternoon in the park but Crowe sees the something that flickers across his expression at the mention of her name.

The stage is set, Crowe realises, and Venus will have her tragedy play. He awaits his lines and stage directions that will inevitably come.

* * *

‘Lord Babington.’ They are alone for a moment after the dinner and she must speak, or she will run mad. ‘I ask this with no expectation, no assumptions.’

The hours of anguished silent debate kept her voice calm.

‘We are returning to France at the end of next week.’ She looks at him, her heart fluttering in her throat. ‘Until then, if you should send for me to be with you, I will come. For a day, a night, an hour. I will come to you.’

His stares at her. The woman he is so deeply in love with and who, if only for a moment days ago, he _knew_ loved him too.

‘I know what I am asking of you, Babington. I know I am being selfish in the extreme,’ there are footsteps in the corridor, this moment cannot be theirs for long. She has so much more in her heart, but knows she must leave all with him now. ‘I will not mention this again. If our paths cross, I will not approach you.’ 

Eliza calls for her to join the ladies for cards.

Parker comes for him a moment afterwards and thinks he sees in his friend something he has not for many years.

* * *

He sits up all that night as his conscience fights his heart.

Parker calls at Mayfair the next morning and finds him on the window seat in his study, still in the same clothes as the night before, staring out at nothing. The desk littered with torn letters and ink stained paper, the settee cushions rumpled and disturbed, a tumbler of brandy barely touched and now forgotten on the mantle piece. The decanters likewise still full.

‘What happened in here?’

‘I had a letter to write.’

‘But not to send?’

‘No.’

Parker looks at his friend. Really, properly looks at him for a few moments and begins to realise a possibility. He decides to take a chance. ‘What _did_ she say to you?’ And because he is not Crowe, Parker sees the brief light in his friend’s eyes as a triumph, not tragedy.

* * *

He sleeps fitfully that night and by dawn is awake and pacing. Too many words and too many questions over long hours. He resorts to brevity:

_‘Come to Mayfair,’_ he writes. _‘Please.’_

She is more beautiful in the soft early morning light of his study than he has ever seen her. Bright as the last star before daybreak and, now that she is here, just as untouchable.

‘I should not have asked you here,’ he does not trust himself to move towards her. ‘I am sorry. I just-’

‘No,’ she does not move either. ‘I did this. I will gladly leave if you want me to and I will come again if you send for me. But I did this, do not apologise.’

He looks at her, desperate after the hours of conflict with himself. He knows he should go to Hampshire, avoid London until she is gone. But he cannot be this close after all this time and not know.

‘You are _married_.’

‘Yes.’ She watches him as he repeats the arguments that have shouted through her own conscience.

‘To a man who I -,’ and he suddenly stops, stepping towards her. ‘He is kind to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you love him?’ So very quietly.

‘Yes.’ Immediate, certain.

‘How can this? _Why?_ ’

‘With my husband, with everyone now, I have myself. I am my own,’ she says, so sure. So very sure. ‘But not you, Babington, I lose myself to you. Have lost myself to you.’

‘ _Esther.’_

‘All this time and all the distance,’ she takes a breath. ‘I will never love anyone as I love you.’ He has it all now, everything that has bought her here.

She is powerful with defiance against everything except her heart.

He stops fighting, lets go of all except his love for her and his own heart now floods with everything it denied for so long.

He reaches out for her. After all these years, he can now finally tell her, ‘I love you.’

* * *

They spend the day in bed. She gives him everything of herself and, as the sun marks the hours in an arc across the floor, she feels bought to life anew. She has never wanted anything, anyone, as much as him. Her body was made for him, for this.

He cannot fathom how he has thought himself alive without knowing her so completely. Her heat and pleasure. Her beauty and strength.

They sleep through the midday and wake in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, bodies rested and wanting. She smiles and stretches beside him, luxuriating in the intimacy of the moment. Then, as he takes her in his arms and she tangles herself around him, the curves of her body entice his kisses to trail to her breasts and then to her thighs and his hands slip to her hips, moving her towards his mouth and tongue.

Her senses are still humming with fulfilment as he slowly makes love to her, her desire for him glowing warm in her veins. Her pleasure comes for her again, deeper this time, longer and she is frowning in confusion at the intensity, then sighing his name and then smiling with the joy of it as she feels him move with her and his breath stammers hot and fast in to her neck.

* * *

Her required attendance at a ball that evening forces their parting.

‘Lady Blackstone’s?’ He asks, his real question left unspoken as he watches her dress.

‘Should I save you a dance, Babington?’

‘Yes,’ low and husky and then he grins and she laughs as he pulls her over the bed to him for one last kiss goodbye.

* * *

He hears her breath quicken as she takes his hand in the Blackstone’s ballroom barely three hours after she has left his bed.

She finds she cannot look away from his intense, darkening gaze as they move through the sets. Her body and senses reacting wholly to him, not understanding the need for this constraint after the hours of freedom.

* * *

He approaches later in the evening.

‘A walk in the gardens, Comtesse?’

They have been foolish and naïve that something so recklessly given life to would allow them any agency over their actions. Both are helpless before the promise of one another’s touch.

‘Thank you, Lord Babington.’

Crowe plays his part as written and ensures the attention of the Comtes’ brother-in-law and sister are engaged away from the garden terraces for a while.

* * *

A tiny, secluded clearing amongst heavy ancient trees that have, doubtless, kept the liaisons of many generations hidden under their boughs.

‘ _Harry,’_ her rapid breaths whisper against his cheek as his fingers ghost up her thighs under her skirts. She bites her lip until his kisses claim her mouth, her body hot under his hands.

Distant laughter and chatter caught on the breeze from the gardens stop them. Breathing ragged and broken, bodies aching with the denial.

* * *

‘Tonight?’ He feels rather than hears her question when they find each other an hour or so later. Her party are leaving for a private supper. She can think only of him, her need for him, but she is unsure how to ask. She keeps her voice low and it catches with desire in the same way it did as she whispered his name in the gardens earlier.

‘ _Christ_. _Yes,’_ he breathes. He too is near breaking with his need of her. ‘Mayfair?’

‘Yes,’ her eyes are dark as they meet his. ‘I - It will be late.’

‘I don’t care.’

The slight contact as they move past one another is enough to send a dizzying heat coursing through them both.

* * *

She arrives in his study in the darkness of the small hours after midnight.

‘I did this,’ she is angry at the world, at herself. ‘ _I did this.’_

She watches as he slowly moves towards her. Her eyes fixed on him, burning with want. Her body trembling and shaking with the frustration of the hours spent apart.

‘I’m in love with you,’ she says. Beautiful. Raw. Strong.

It is all he can do not to tear her dress from her body.

* * *

Later, just before daybreak. ‘Come to Hampshire.’

‘Yes,’ immediate. She lifts her head and places her arm across his waist, resting her chin on her forearm. ‘When?’

‘Tonight? Tomorrow?’ His fingers trace along her cheek.

She thinks for a moment, sets some plans. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘How long?’ Quietly.

‘Until Friday.’ Absolute certainty. She will give him everything while she can. 

Four days. Three nights. Uncountable hours, a lifetime.

* * *

The time seems to stretch out before them with slow indulgence.

They race his horses across the parkland, and she tumbles into his arms as he helps her down and then pulls her into the deep secrecy of the meadow’s tall, sweet scented grass. Kisses long and lingering, hands chaste and delicate.

* * *

He takes her up on to the roof, leading her through one of the large attic windows on to the narrow path between balustrade and steep roof pitch, the lead warm beneath her steadying hand.

‘The stars spread for miles at night,’ he says. ‘But I cannot name many of them, and the view is better in daylight.’ He laughs and they round the corner and suddenly it is as though she can see forever.

The parkland, its trees and lake smudged with the shadows cast from the high clouds, spreads to a patchwork of fields with the village far beyond. And yet further to the hills stretching and curving to the horizon.

She leans back against him as he stands behind her, arms entwined with hers at her waist, pointing out the estate landmarks and farms. He is self-depreciating and humble in his guardianship of this land and makes her laugh telling her stories of his childhood misadventures and accidents of youth in the gardens, fields and woods below them.

It is a lifetime of belonging.

* * *

They swim in the lake and then lie on the bank, hidden by trees, and let the dappled sunlight dry them. She chases the water droplets on his body with her fingers and kisses, following the trails over his jaw and neck and across his chest.

Later, in bed, she will continue. Her kisses soft and exploring, her fingers tracing up his thighs and down his stomach. She will press her tongue to his length and take his tip in her mouth until, barely able to trust his senses anymore, he moans her name again and again his voice breaking as he drowns in the pleasure she gives him.

* * *

She takes to exploring rooms at random and, one evening, happens upon the long gallery.

‘There is no portrait,' she turns towards him.

‘Of who?’ He smiles and sits on the stairs, watching her.

‘Of _you_!’ She laughs and gestures towards the paintings. ‘Lord Babington’s going back generations and yet you are not represented.'

‘Not had the inclination to sit for one yet,’ he says.

‘Do you not wish to be captured as you are? I seem to remember Sidney Parker’s portrait as a masterclass in youth and flattery,’ and she grins widely as he laughs.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I shall wait until I am old and then have it done and endeavour to scare my family for generations to come.’

She hums her amusement and runs a lingering hand over his arm and shoulder. Then she flutters a kiss to his temple and moves past him along the gallery to the doors at the end.

* * *

The ballroom is vast, extending well above and beyond the glow of the few candles that he lights.

‘Indulge me?’ He bows slightly and offers his hand.

She glances at him with a half-smile before stepping into his hold. She cannot refuse this man anything.

Her breath catches in surprise as he gently tightens his arm on her waist, bringing her body very close to his. Then as she relaxes against him, he leads her across the wide, shadowy floor in a slow sensual waltz.

He never takes his eyes from hers.

This is how, given the chance, he would have danced with her in Sanditon, at the Blackstone’s. Always.

* * *

‘I love you,’ he murmurs into her kiss as they lie together early on Friday morning. A statement of fact.

‘I love you,’ she whispers against his lips. An apology, her prayer for his forgiveness. But for the decisions that she made they might have had this forever. A tear trickles down her cheek.

* * *

No words are exchanged when they part, no promises made. 

They both know that this has to be an end to it.

The pain is a dull, silent ache that sinks deep in to both of their souls.

It lingers for a very long time.

* * *

He spends some time with his family before returning to London. He is quieter than normal and Deacon waits for the quiet to break in to despair. But this time there is no destruction.

He is in love and knows that love is returned with a passion he did not think possible. It is enough. He knows it is much more than some men ever have.

* * *

She returns to her husband, the deep loving friendship they share and the gentle kindness of their marriage.

As their life together in Austria begins to flourish, she settles her thoughts and heart. A new sort of contentment finds her, one born of full self-knowledge and the realisation that the blinding white of true, passionate love can be refracted to a spectrum as through a glass prism. Each colour being precious, beautiful and painful in its own way.

Sometimes, if the heat of summer reaches high enough, a meadow scented breeze will come in from the mountains. It makes her smile with the memories it invokes. Then, as the ripples across the lake still and the trees quiet, it will be gone and she will feel herself return as though from another life. 

* * *

‘Tell me of her,' the Duchess says one day as they walk in the gardens of Carlton House. It has been a few years since they shared a bed, but the friendship has remained.

‘There is no one.’ He smiles.

‘Whomever the lady is, she was not no one before.’ The Duchess has known this man too long. ‘But she has been someone since.’

‘Yes.’ He says.

There will never be anyone else.

* * *

He continues to use his connections to help people, to bring like minds and differing opinions together. The shooting parties and weekends at his estate become renowned for interesting guests, generous and lavish hospitality, lively debate and intelligent discussion.

Sometimes, if the light in his study is falling in just the right way and he is not thinking of it, he will look up and she is there. More beautiful than she has ever been, bright as the last star before daybreak.

* * *

‘I would see you settled, Frederick.’ Babington’s mother remarks at intervals as the years slip past.

‘I am settled.’

_‘Married_ and settled. It will bring you contentment, heirs.’

‘I have nephews enough who can inherit’.

He is a good deal more content in his life than any married man he knows of.

* * *

The Marquis spins tales of folklore and magic for their children each evening. The youngest tiny in its swaddling against his chest, the other small but wide-eyed with rapt attention on his lap. She too, always sits and listens and he catches her eye and smiles, mingling his beloved literature and philosophy into worlds of adventure and nonsense.

One night in mid summer, as the sun dips into the lake sending threads of gold through its darkness, the Marquis fumbles to recall a name. The next night he misremembers a place but waves away her concern. The following evening her heart stutters in dread as her husband loses track of the tale completely.

* * *

It is a desperate week that follows, brutal with silence. 

She sits beside her husband’s bed and holds his hand.

Time is marked not in hours but by the shortening of intervals between doctor’s visits and the lengthening of her stretches of sleeplessness.

His eyes are heavy with the fever, his body alternating heat and cold.

At the end, helpless to offer any other comfort, she cradles her husband in her arms. He rests his head against her shoulder and, as tears flow down her cheeks, she listens as his laboured breaths rattle in his chest.

* * *

He learns of the death of the Marquis and agonises over his letter of condolence to her. It will be their first contact since their leaving of one another but he feels he must write, as he would always write to any friend suffering such a loss that he can only guess at.

His resulting letter is elegant with formality, but gently so, and brings her more comfort than he will ever know. There has been a handful of letters, in amongst so many, that she had known the sender of before she opened them. In a wide sea of loss, such familiarity anchors her to life and not to grief. Handwriting seared into her memories and heart, her Aunt, the Marquis’ sister, Mary Parker, Charlotte. And him.

Grief, she realises, creates its own uneven momentum and the first few months pass in a blur of nothing and everything. She replies to all that wrote, matching her style to theirs. Formal for formal. Kindness for kindness. Unable to manage anything more personal.

She promises herself she will write properly to all, but then the first Christmas without her husband brings another overwhelming flurry of kind and thoughtful letters and it is not until the spring that she feels she has any original words to begin to write to anyone.

Her Aunt is very glad of the short letter. She delights in news of the children and estate and is pleased to find a little of her niece’s wit and humour scattered across the phrasing.

* * *

Over the months since he received her formal reply, thanking him for his letter, his desk drawer has gradually filled with letters to her. Some are just a sentence or a word, some neat with rigid politeness, some a confusion of hurriedly written emotion. None of them ever get sent.

But, one day _‘. . . I have finally been persuaded to have that portrait painted . . .’_ he begins, and then stops. Then he smiles and starts writing to her, not Miss Denham, not Comtesse, not widowed Marquise, but Esther whom he loved to make laugh and smile.

She receives his letter in the heat of summer and reads it on the terrace with the scent of meadows drifting in from the mountains. It makes her laugh. It makes her smile.

Across the last of that summer and into autumn, a tentative but friendly and amusing exchange of letters begins between them. 

* * *

Her aunt's deteriorating health abruptly bring her and her children to Sanditon at the year’s end.

On the sleepless journey across the sea she writes, destroys and then writes and destroys the same letter to him.

On her first night in Sanditon House, she writes it once more.

All this time and all the distance.

She does not destroy it this time.

* * *

Crowe had thought his part played out, Venus’ tragedy complete and yet it falls to him to deliver one last line.

On the journey from London to Hampshire, Crowe encounters Tom Parker. He finds himself being told, although he showed no interest in hearing it, all the news of Sanditon, of Lady D’s rallying from her fever and of the guests staying with her at Sanditon House.

As all great tragedies at their completion deserve an approving audience, on arrival in Hampshire, Crowe finds Parker and wordlessly takes him by the elbow to the library.

Crowe delivers his line and watches as his friends absorb the news.

‘You _must_ go,’ it is Parker who speaks first.

‘I – I,’ he cannot think beyond the length of journey time from here to Sanditon. He could be there by nightfall. But if Lady D is ill surely he would not be welcomed and he has a house full of guests until tomorrow.

But he wants so much just to see her.

‘ _Go_! You heard Crowe; Lady D is recovering.’ Parker is more animated than Crowe has seen him in years. ‘And all is done here, I can host tonight.’ 

He looks at Parker and then at Crowe who shrugs and smiles.

He goes.

* * *

He finds her on the deserted beach.

A storm out at sea is sending fighting clouds rolling towards the land but she has seen this many times on this shoreline and is unconcerned. She walks slowly, her youngest child turning clumsy pirouettes from her fingertips as their surer-footed older sibling chases shadows along the sand.

She turns as he approaches.

It is as it ever was.

She knows she loves him and will always be his.

He knows he is as much in love with her now as he has ever been.

‘I have no right to ask,’ he says as they walk, her arm through his as they follow the two small footprint trails just in front of them.

‘Never say that,’ she tilts her head into the breeze. That calm, assured tone. ‘You have every right to ask anything of me.’

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘You know I’m in love with you. Marry me. Please.’ He stops walking and takes her hands. ‘I know your life and your children’s lives are in Austria. I know you may never move back to England. I do not care, and I do not care what anyone will think. I will wait for you as long as you need me to. Please, Esther.’

‘You did not get my letter?’ She asks as she steps closer. She is smiling, laughing.

‘Letter? No,’ and his heart pounds as she flutters a kiss to his fingers.

‘Read it when you return to Mayfair,’ she laughs. ‘And yes. Yes. _Always_ yes.’

* * *

_‘. . . I write this with no expectation, no assumptions . ._

_. . . I cannot pretend there will be any normalcy in our lives. We may be together and yet have to live apart across continents. But send word if you still feel for me as I do for you as I will gladly wait months to spend a week together with you . . ._

_. . . and marry me, Babington. Please. . .’_


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.

* * *

Esther was chasing a sensation that, only a few months ago, she had not known existed. Her eyes closed, hands pressing on Babington’s shoulders, body curved slightly away from him, her hips moving to a rhythm that was beginning to tell in the tremble in her thighs and the quickening of her husband’s breath against her skin, the tightening of his arms across her back.

It had been Babington’s gentle fingers that, on their wedding night, had first pulled her in to this pure heat. He had left her breathless, her heart pounding and senses shivering with the bliss of it. Thoughts scattered in disbelief. Her body set to fire with her overwhelming want for him.

Esther had not thought it possible to feel more until Babington had gently, but with glorious intent, pressed his tongue against her the following night. It had been a complete, heady abandonment of body and mind. Of self.

As Babington’s freedom in his passion for Esther gave her a boldness and confidence, she had found how it was like this, astride her husband. His body moving with hers. Together chasing the alchemy that, like this, could not just be given or discovered but demanded to be hunted and then unleashed a hellfire of fury at being captured.

Esther arched her back before suddenly curving in towards Babington. She smiled, gasping in triumph at hearing his breath catch in an ecstasy of surprise as she pressed her hips into him, deeper, harder, dropping her head to his shoulder.

Breathing in his scent.

Breathing with his body.

She was _so_ close. Small threads of fire were beginning to catch and tighten within her but then unravelled again as her senses began to chaos, fighting to be the first to catch again.

‘ _Esther_ ,’ her husband’s mouth hot and close on her pulse at her neck and Esther wrapped her arms around him, pulling his body to hers as she moved against him and he caught her rhythm once more.

So _very_ close.

Esther bit her lip and huffed in impatience, but then she felt Babington smile against her skin and she breathed in anticipation. Babington knew what it was she needed, his privilege to have discovered how to disintegrate the whispers of chaos and bring her to her edge. Gently, so as to pleasure, not mark, he nipped the soft skin beneath her ear between his teeth. The blissful pinch of nerves sending a spike of intensity tearing through Esther’s impatience and making her cry out in relief at the focus, her hand pressing at the nape of Babington’s neck.

Babington tightened his arm around her waist and dropped a hand to her thigh, her muscles tensioned under his fingers. He nipped her neck again and Esther gasped, tipping her head back, a wide smile on her lips

‘ _Esther,’_ Babington’s groan was hot into her shoulder. He could feel his own approaching fury, his senses reaching out to catch it, heart now pounding, thoughts evaporating into sensation. His hand on Esther’s thigh suddenly tightened, his fingers pushing deep and hard into the tension stretched there. Esther felt the intense pressure angrily spike and again she gasped, smiled at the realisation that it had nowhere to go except deep within her.

Suddenly, it was all she could feel. 

It was everything she needed.

‘ _Harry,’_ and Esther curved away from his arm at her waist, tipping back to push harder towards Babington and sighing his name again as the pressure gave way to the first waves of all encompassing, glorious fury.

‘God, Esther. _Esther.’_ Babington’s arm fell from her waist and his hand now gripped her other thigh, immediately tighter this time. The pressure within her muscles was once again forced back inside her, burning with a hedonistic rage.

There was a moment of beautiful, pure nothing.

A deep, sighing intake of breath.

Then the hellfire of fury finally turned on her and Esther was engulfed in the oblivion of sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally and completely unrelated to anything, including these drabbles, but does anyone else get slight (very slight, close one eye in a dark room and probably squint a bit) Morticia and Gomez vibes from Esther and Babington?  
> Maybe it's just me, or maybe the season is getting to me!


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.

* * *

‘Husband.’

‘Esther.’

‘You are late.’

‘A transgression I intend to apologise for most thoroughly.’

‘And your hands are _cold_ ’

‘I have a remedy for that also.’

‘My participation is required for both?’

‘Your presence, my darling, is humbly requested for both.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Also, your knowledge of this house is integral to deciding whether or not I should delay my apology until we return to London.’

‘I can think of no reason to delay, Babington.’

‘Hmmm. You see, I thought to warm my hands like this.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘And this.’

‘ _Mmmm._ ’

‘Whereas, I plan to apologise like this.’

‘ _Harry_!’ 

‘And as I have not had the pleasure of staying in your Aunt’s house before, I would invite your opinion as to how quiet we need to be in this bedroom and whether I should proceed with my apology,’

‘. . . _Harry.’_

‘Or whether it is better to delay.’

‘. . . _harry . . .’_

'Hmm, I think to proceed. Don't you?'


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House  
> 

* * *

A morning in Mayfair, quiet with late summer warmth and sunshine.

Esther Babington was in bed, comfortable against the pillows, her fingers stroking through Babington’s hair as she read through some pamphlets she had picked up the day before. Babington was stretched out haphazardly beside her, gradually beginning to stir from sleep. His head rested on her chest, one arm draped over her waist.

‘Mmmmm,’ Babington’s voice was muffled against Esther and she glanced down at him as she reached to take another pamphlet from the small pile beside her on the bed. ‘What time is it?’

Esther looked up at the clock on the mantlepiece.

‘Almost half past nine.’ She smiled as her husband groaned quietly and half opened his eyes but otherwise did not move.

‘I’m riding at noon in Richmond with Lightwood,’ Babington closed his eyes again, frowning at the seemingly insurmountable task of having to get up and across London in time to meet his friend.

‘You may yet be saved, Babington.’ Esther put down the pamphlet she was reading and searched through the sheets beside her, removing a small envelope. ‘Lieutenant Lightwood sent a note last night after you left.’

Babington lifted his head and blinked slowly before moving his arm from her waist and taking the note from Esther’s fingers.

‘Mmm, thank you,’ he drawled, voice heavy with fatigue and the effects of his late night.

Esther could not hide her amusement at her husband’s sleep rumpled appearance, and he smiled back at her, placing a quick kiss clumsily on her lips before settling on her chest again. After watching Babington attempt to open the note with one hand for a few moments, as moving his other arm from under the pillow above him would involve far too much effort, Esther sighed indulgently and took it back off him and quickly broke the seal.

‘Thank you,’ Babington said again and tightened his arm across her body slightly. ‘Mmm, have I told you yet today that I love you?’ His voice was muffled once more as he sleepily kissed Esther’s chest through the bedclothes.

‘Well,’ Esther laughed and then pretended to consider the question very carefully. ‘You told me several times when you woke me up as you came to bed last night.’

‘Sorry,’ Babington raised his head and gave her a lopsided, slightly embarrassed smile. Esther smirked fondly at him and unfolded the note, raising her eyebrow to question him whether she should read it. ‘What does Lightwood say?’ Babington asked as he settled against her once more.

‘The Lieutenant sends you his regards,’ Esther said, holding the note in her left hand whilst her right hand once more stroked through Babington’s hair. ‘He very thoughtfully asks you to pass his regards on to me also. I must say, he does have a beautiful turn of phrase,’ Esther bit back her laughter as Babington mumbled something unintelligible into the bedclothes. ‘Then he apologises for the unpardonably late notice but begs your kind indulgence and could you possibly meet next week rather than this.’

Babington groaned with relief and pressed another kiss to the bedclothes covering Esther’s chest before slowly turning over on to his back.

‘Do I want to know what time it was I got home last night?’ He asked rubbing his hand over his face as he settled against the pillows.

‘Fortunately for you, husband,’ Esther said dryly. ‘It was still dark.’

‘Mmmm,’ Babington groaned again and then looked up and met Esther’s amused expression with a rueful smile. ‘Sorry.’

Esther sighed, but turned on to her side to lie beside Babington, resting her arm on the pillow above him. Last night notwithstanding, her husband looked tired. Very tired. She knew all too well what troubled him so.

‘How was Sidney?’ She asked.

‘As he is always now.’ Babington said. ‘Ever the businessman with his brothers and potential investors for Sanditon. Then once they depart, he becomes quiet, morose. Or gets angry at himself and drinks.’ Babington frowned, worried for his friend. ‘He is sleeping it off in one of the guest rooms now.’

Esther gentled her fingers through the curls on Babington’s forehead, quiet as she remembered all too well what that self-loathing anger felt like.

‘At least I hope he is sleeping,’ Babington continued, optimistically. ‘As I don’t think he does so much anymore.’ He closed his eyes for a moment as the edges of his headache seemed to trickle away under Esther’s touch and he tilted his head towards her hand.

‘He may find it more restful here than at Bedford Place at the moment,’ Esther said with flat matter of fact. ‘Tom Parker and his monomania do not strike me as quiet house guests.’

Babington huffed in mirthless recognition and then reached up to carefully brush Esther’s curls away from her brow.

‘I would see him happy, Esther.’ Babington rested his hand against her cheek as she smiled down at him. His extraordinary, beautiful Esther. _‘_ Somehow, I _will_ see Sidney happy.’ Babington murmured. He closed his eyes again, his mind hazily reviewing the discrete enquiries with alternative investors he and Sidney had been making recently. There had been precious few interested, indeed willing, to commit the large sums needed and breaking an engagement was no small thing so perhaps it was a distant hope. But it was _not_ impossible and Babington had found himself determinedly fixing on to that quite often recently in the face of Sidney’s increasingly dark, quiet demeanour. 

Babington sighed, sleep beginning to whisper once more in his body. That and the gentleness of Esther’s touch meant, for the moment, all else started slipping away from him.

Esther thoughtful, pressed a slow kiss to Babington’s forehead.

‘I have a mind to call at Grosvenor Square tomorrow,’ she mused quietly after a few moments as though speaking it aloud would help her decide whether to proceed. 

‘To call on Eliza?’ Babington blinked opened his eyes. 

‘Hmm,’ Esther settled against him, her head now on his shoulder, hand entwined with his on his chest. ‘I have been so occupied recently with _other_ new acquaintances, husband of mine,' Esther gently teased Babington as she gave herself a few moments more to consider. She paused again, then continued, her voice quieter. Thoughtful. 'I think I should begin to know Mrs Campion a little more.’

‘And, if Eliza is,’ Babington stopped, forced the correction. _‘As_ Eliza is to become Mrs Sidney Parker,’ he left the thought unfinished. The wedding was only a month away now.

‘Eliza may find she has greater contentment remaining as Mrs Campion than she might ever have as Mrs Parker. She is giving up so much in return for very little.’ Esther said, careful but quietly certain. 'It will Mrs Tom Parker she becomes if she continues on this path.’

‘Mrs Tom Parker?’ Babington was touching at the edge of sleep and could not be sure he had heard correctly.

  
  
‘It is Tom, not Sidney, who needs Eliza. Tom who would fall without her. Tom Parker who Eliza will be tied to, dressed in his brother’s clothes with the ruins of Sanditon hidden in his coat tails.’ Esther gently linked and unlinked her finger’s with Babington’s as she spoke. ‘If Eliza still believes this is a love match between her and Sidney, ten years in the making, then she is being misled. By others or herself.‘

Esther lifted her head, rested her chin on her hand, thinking. ‘But then Eliza is no fool,’ she said. She looked at Babington and frowned slightly. ‘Surely Eliza knows by now that her marriage is, at least in part, a business arrangement?’ 

A marriage as business arrangement was at least honest, fair to all. The possibility that Eliza's marriage to Sidney was still dressed as fairy tale was troubling to Esther. No one deserved the humiliating pain of that, and the consequences of the lie could be ugly for all and reach far beyond Sanditon. Yet Tom Parker seemed content to build the future of his family and an entire town on it and the guilt of his brother.

'She must know by now . . .‘ Babington said slowly. He tried to force his brain into coherent, linear thoughts, track consequences. ‘And if others invest more options could be . . . available . . . for her.’ 

‘I shall call at Grosvenor Square tomorrow, perhaps begin to know a little of Eliza’s mind in all this.’ Esther said quietly, almost to herself. She thought for a minute or two more, fingers again gentling through Babington’s hair. Then she sighed, fluttered another kiss to his forehead. ‘As for today, Babington,' Esther glanced at the mantelpiece clock once more. 'I must be going.’

‘Stay?’ Babington just about managed to stifle a yawn and then moaned in protest as she began to move away from him. ‘Just for a while?’

‘You have more comfortable pillows to sleep on now.’ Esther laughed, pressing a quick kiss on Babington’s lips before nimbly twisting away from his hands as he reached to pull her closer.

‘You misunderstand!’ Babington’s denial lost some of its integrity in yet another stifled yawn. But he continued, undeterred by Esther’s incredulously raised brow. ‘I would hear more of your thoughts on Eliza!’ To further demonstrate his interest, Babington sat up and immediately regretted it as his headache pain spiked with the sudden movement.

‘Your morning appointment may have cancelled on you, Babington,’ Esther said, regarding him with a smile of fond cynicism from the foot of bed. He looked as though he could fall asleep where he sat. ‘But mine has not.’

‘Hmmm,’ Babington settled slowly back on the pillows, reluctantly accepting his defeat. ‘I would hear more though. Will I see you later? Tonight?’

‘Most certainly, husband.’ Esther said, pulling his Banyan robe around her. ‘As we have a supper engagement.’

‘We do?’ Babington fought to disguise his disappointment. After long days busy with London society and events, he had hoped to spend the evening alone with Esther. ‘Where?’

‘Here.’

‘With whom?’ 

‘No one,’ Esther said airily, waiting for her husband’s tired mind to catch up. Babington started to smile as he began to realise what she was saying. ‘I shall expect you at half past eight, Babington.’.

‘I am delighted to accept your invitation, Lady Babington,’ Babington grinned, his voice beginning to drawl with fatigue again and Esther risked approaching him to snatch one final kiss.

‘If the evening is fine, Babington.’ Esther pressed just one last kiss to her husband’s forehead, smiling as his eyes fluttered closed. ‘You will find me in the garden at eight.’

'Mmmm,' Babington sighed. He was fast asleep again even before the door between dressing room and bedroom had clicked softly closed behind Esther.


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.
> 
> Babington's Sister - Augusta and she is younger than him. She calls him Freddy which he hates. But then he calls her Tussle which she loathes. Siblings are just great aren't they?
> 
> Babington's Mother - French-Austrian and alive.
> 
> Babington's Father - English and deceased.
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House  
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate

* * *

Sidney Parker is rarely a good, peaceful drunk and he knows it. But tonight, at this moment in the still air of a September evening, the moon bright above him and a bottle of exceptionally good wine in his hand, he has found that sweet happiness between crushing sobriety and self-loathing oblivion. 

He sighs deeply as his mind gently floats, at peace for the first time in a long time. He walks slowly, in no particular direction, through the low hedges of the formal gardens until he finds an end and turns to sit on a low wall, facing back towards Babington’s house.

He is in Hampshire, away from London, away from Sanditon. Away from endless meetings with financiers and bankers that start with hope and end with dismissal.

Sidney realises he has left his wineglass somewhere and so takes a long drink from the bottle, then sets to balancing it precariously on the wall beside him. It is after a couple of attempts, as he thinks better of it and opts to put it on the ground instead, that he hears his friend approaching.

‘You have left Crowe with Tom?’ Sidney calls as Babington comes towards him, his stride a little blurry. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Arthur is there too!’ Babington says in defence of his decision.

‘I love my brothers, but Tom with Crowe has a potential for unpredictability which I suspect Arthur might find entertaining,’ Sidney says, finding he stumbles over the words a little. Unpredictability takes two attempts to manage correctly.

‘Well, I cannot speak for your brothers,’ Babington comes to sit beside him. ‘But the only thing Crowe has ever damaged in this house was himself when he nearly broke his own neck.’

‘Drunk?’ Sidney smirks, and then offers Babington the bottle in celebration of their friend’s exploits.

‘No, twelve.’ Babington takes a long swig and hands the bottle back to Sidney.

‘Hmm?’

‘He was twelve, I think? Anyway, he was staying here for the summer.’ Babington begins to clumsily search his pockets for his cheroots. ’Fell down the main staircase. Tussle thought she had killed him. She had dared him to walk the bannister. The long straight bit on the first landing?’

‘I can see him doing that.’ Sidney tips his head back and smiles.

‘Although Tussle would have done it first most likely,’ Babington says, still searching his pockets ‘Just to show him.’

‘Where were you?’ Sidney laughs.

‘Out with my father on the estate.’ Finally triumphant, Babington pulls his tobacco case from a pocket and offers it to Sidney. ‘Tussle and Crowe had the run of this place on their own for hours at times.’ Babington gestures vaguely at the house in front of them. ‘He probably knows his way round better than I.

‘Worrying.’ Sidney lights his cheroot from Babington’s and inhales deeply.

‘Possibly. Christ knows what he has found over the years.’

They are quiet for a while, bottle on the ground between them, cheroots glowing softly.

The clock on the stable block begins to chime for midnight. Its deep, soft tones drift across the gardens to them.

‘Three weeks. Babington.’ Sidney murmurs. ‘Three weeks.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’ve worked out I was ten words away.’ Sidney blames the start of a new day for the sudden dip in his mood.

‘Ten words?’ Babington gets the three weeks. Three weeks until Eliza Campion becomes Eliza Parker. But his friend has lost him on the other. He takes a drink from the bottle, lights another cheroot. Maybe they will help him focus on what Sidney is saying.

‘I should have just asked her earlier.’ The familiar thoughts of self-blame, guilt and recrimination, Sidney’s companions for over a month now. He takes the bottle from Babington. ‘Approached her sooner. Hours sooner. Days sooner. Been more like you. Seen her. Known. Not given up.’

‘I don’t know that I’d recommend it. Can be a bit . . .’ Babington’s brain wanders around his vocabulary for the word. ‘Chaotic? Still can’t quite believe how I managed to go from talking at a cricket match to proposing in the space of a few hours.’

‘Worked though, eventually.’ Sidney tries to push the thoughts away. Distract himself. ‘God!’ He laughs. ‘You were unliveable with those weeks after she refused you.’

‘ _You_ think _I_ was unliveable with?’ Babington turns to face his friend and fixes him with the best incredulous stare he can summon. A celebratory swig of wine.

‘Yes,’ Sidney laughs again, he will take any teasing as long as it keeps those morose thoughts at bay a little longer. He is pacing his words now to allow some space between them. Makes them clearer. Less stumbles. ‘I am aware. But I’ve been unliveable with for ten years now and so everyone is just used to it.’

‘Your irascibility has a unique charm all its own,’ Babington grins, more with pride at himself for not stumbling over ‘irascibility’ than anything else.

The clock chimes fade away to silence.

‘Three weeks to the very day now.’ The morose cloud hovers. ‘Ahhh Harry!’ Sidney groans and scrubs his hands through his hair. Tries again to keep himself distracted. To laugh at himself. ‘Give me something to really torture myself with. I may as well have some variety. I am bored of my own thoughts of this.’

‘Insult your intellect? Comment on your choice of tailor? Character assassination?’ Babington helpfully gives options. ‘More wine?’

‘More wine.’ Sidney squints at the bottle, trying unsuccessfully to determine how much is left. He shrugs, drinks from it and hands it back to Babington. ‘Tell me this, Harry. What is it about being married to Esther that makes it? What is it that makes you _know_? Married to a woman you love?’

‘Sidney,’ Babington is immediately cautious.

‘No, I want to know.’ Sidney lights another cheroot. Gallows humour he supposes, but he may as well hang himself with a truth from someone who knows rather than an imagining from his own cruel heart. ‘What is the one thing?’ Go ahead.’

‘You really want to know?’ Babington glances sideways at Sidney. He has tried to avoid talking about Esther these past two days whilst they are here. Avoided talking about Mrs Campion for that matter too, wanting Sidney just to stop for a while, enjoy some time with his brothers and friends.

‘I really want to know.’ Sidney says decisively and takes a long drag on his cheroot. He leans back on his elbows. ‘And don’t dismiss me with some poetry about her eyes or her smile.’

Babington is silent for a moment. Looks at his friend again, still unsure. But Sidney _has_ asked and God, but he has missed Esther these past few days so much that it aches. He is silently counting the hours, the minutes until her arrival this coming afternoon.

He glances at Sidney once more. Sidney beckons with his hand in a gesture of encouragement.

‘When she says my name.’ Babington says quietly, almost reverently.

‘That’s it? _That’s it?!_ ’ Sidney stares at him in disbelief. ‘Christ Babington, I know you’re romantic type but you’re either lying or easily pleased.' Sidney sits up and finds the wine bottle. Takes a disparaging swig. ‘That’s it? Every time Esther says Babington?’

Babington smiles and looks away. Amused by something.

‘Because she _never_ calls you Harry.’ Sidney is forthright with conviction.

‘Hmmm.’

‘I’ve never,’ Sidney stumbles a little in his certainty. ‘I’ve never heard her call you Harry.’

‘No,’ Babington turns and looks at his friend. ‘You haven’t.’

Sidney suddenly realises why.

Babington smiles, takes the bottle from Sidney and looks away again.

‘ _Christ_.’ Sidney breathes. To have the woman you are in love with say your name like that. At that moment.

Sidney wonders if he still has Crowe’s hip flask from the card game earlier, begins to search his pockets.

‘I was ten words away from that, Babington.’ Sidney says as he searches. ‘Ten words.’

‘Ten words?’ Babington frowns, this again? He looks for the wine bottle.

‘Would. You. Do. Me. The. Honour. Of. Becoming. My. Wife.’ Sidney stops his search to count the words off. Babington laughs, finally understanding. Sidney warms to his theme, now finding an eloquence shared by heartbroken drunkards since time immemorial. ‘I had a whole speech planned for Charlotte. You would have loved it Harry. But those ten words would have been enough. Hell! Five could have done it; ‘I love you. Marry me’’.

‘Very direct, Parker.’ Babington finds the wine bottle, drinks thoughtfully, offers a criticism. ‘You might have wanted to include her name so that she could be sure it was her you were addressing.’

‘I had already done that,’ Sidney dismisses his friend’s input. ‘Miss Heywood, Charlotte.’

‘What?’ Babington asks quickly.

‘I had already done that. Said that,’ Sidney reaches his last pocket. No hipflask. Dammit. He takes the bottle from Babington. ‘Just the ten words to go. Or five. Or two – ‘Marry me’ as I could have spent the rest of my life telling Charlotte I love her.’

‘What?’ Babington is suddenly sobering up. ‘You were proposing to Charlotte?’

‘Yes.’ Sidney is irritated by Babington’s questions.

‘You proposed at the ball?’

‘Yes.’ What did Babington think he was doing with Charlotte up on the balcony?

‘Sidney?’ Babington makes Sidney turn to face him fully. He ensures his friend is looking directly at him before continuing very slowly, clearly. ‘You proposed to Miss Charlotte Heywood? At the Sanditon Midsummer Ball?’

‘Yes!’ Why all these questions when it was Babington who said he hoped Sidney receive a favourable answer!

‘ _What_?’ Babington thinks the shock of this may kill him. Surely, this would change everything.

‘What?’ Sidney’s brain catches up with his irritation. ‘No! No. _Was_ proposing. Had not yet proposed.’

‘What happened?’ Babington takes some deep breaths, refocuses on his friend.

‘Miss Heywood. Charlotte . . . and then I forget the exact phrase,’ Sidney frowns towards the house as though hoping the words will appear. ‘But something like ‘’get your hands off me’’ or ‘‘unhand me‘.’

‘She - she refused you?’ Babington is very doubtful.

‘Unhand me you bastards?’ Sidney’s memory is flurrying around trying to settle on the shout that interrupted them. ‘Unhand me you scoundrels?’

‘Sir Edward.’ Babington fits the pieces together.

‘Hmm.’

‘But why didn’t you return and finish the conversation?’ Babington is tracking through the fog of his mind to try and remember the exact timeline of events of that evening.

‘We had been tasked to ensure Sir Edward was put on a coach to London.’ Sidney shrugs, matter of fact. He is delighted to find he is still holding the bottle. He takes a long drink.

‘Yes,’ Babington cannot believe Sidney is so calm about this. ‘But. Sidney!’

‘And,’ Sidney says as he swallows another swig of wine and then continues in his report of the evening. ‘You needed to return to Esther, Miss Denham as was.’

‘But, you were - ’ Babington is beginning to realise the full ramifications of the timings of Edward’s interruption, Lady Denham’s instruction, the fire. And his own actions.

‘Come on, Babington,’ Sidney says, feeling he needs to gently remind his friend of what happened. ‘I have never seen you so angry at anyone than you were that night at Sir Edward.’ He speaks calmly, slowly. ‘You hid it very well, by the way, but I thought you were going to kill him. And you were near out of your mind with worry for Esther which you hid slightly less well, by the way. Safer that I stay with Edward and you return.’ Sidney nods. Satisfied.

‘You were midway through a proposal?’ Babington is speaking slowly now too, though not as calmly Sidney notes, hazily. ‘And you sent _me_ back?’

‘Yes.’ Sidney nods again, content that his friend is fully reacquainted with the events of the evening. The wine bottle is empty now, which is a shame.

‘ _Sidney_ ’ Babington is feeling the most sober he has been since supper.

‘Then of course the fire.’ _Now_ his friend really is fully reacquainted with the events. That wine bottle really is empty. Shame.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Babington’s head is resting in his hands.

‘What would it change?’ Sidney feels he may have to explain things again.

‘At that moment?’ Babington straightens up and turns to his friend, his voice raising, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘When I left you with Edward? _Everything!_ Sidney! Dammit, Charlotte was _with_ Esther when I found her. I saw how you looked at her I know how you felt about her. You should have come back with me, Edward be damned.' Babington gesticulates sharply away from the house in the vague direction of the capital. ' _And_ I cannot believe that the whole week we were in London, looking for investors, you never said a word. _’_

‘You think I should have returned and asked Charlotte to marry me?’ Sidney is growing angry now, can barely believe Babington is being so naïve. His calm explanation of events gives way to the anger at his circumstance. He does not need his friend to tell him what is in his own heart.

‘YES!’ Babington stands up and walks a few steps away from Sidney, fighting down his anger. 

‘And to hell with my family?’ Sidney’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. ‘Hold Charlotte’s hand while I stand and watch Tom, Mary, their children, lose everything?’

‘A way could have been found to help your family,’ Babington forces himself to be calmer and turns back to his friend.

‘Like it is being found now?’ Sidney’s anger is always cruel, normally at himself. Not this time. He can almost feel the weight of what he is throwing back in Babington’s face.

‘You wanted to know what it is about being married?’ Babington cannot control his anger at his friend’s apparent martyrdom, his complete willingness to surrender. Weeks of listening to Sidney’s self-loathing and gradually learning of Charlottes incredible stoicism from Esther now find an outlet. Fuelled with alcohol, laced with romantic idealism and drunkenly careless with privilege. ‘You wanted to know what it is to be in love with your wife? To know, not just believe, but know that she is in love with you? What it is to have that? It is _everything_ Sidney. More than any town or family or reputation. So much more. And you had it within reach. You were _proposing_ Sidney. Not thinking about it, actually saying the words.’

‘He is my _brother_ Babington,’ Sidney’s words hiss through his teeth. He is shaking with rage, gestures to the house, the parkland. ‘Look at where we are! You would set a match to all this to marry Esther? All of it? This house, the estate, the Dower House, Mayfair, the money, the title? Everything?

Babington makes as though to speak, but Sidney will not let him. Weeks and months of heartache and self-loathing fuel him. The words spill out of him, spiked, ugly. White hot with anger.

‘You would see your mother homeless and your family name disgraced, forever associated with the scandal, all so you could marry Esther? How can you not realise that all this, ALL THIS, is what _enabled_ your marriage, gave you the privilege to choose? Very few men could marry someone like Es-‘ Sidney stops, mid word.

_‘Say. It.’_ Babington is suddenly very, very still.

Some very distant, very small part of Sidney that has somehow remained sensible wishes he was not so drunk. It wishes he were not so angry as those two words from Babington are all he needs to pick up where he left off. That small, distant part of Sidney now watches as the final remnants of twelve years of friendship crumbles to dust. Word by word.

‘Very, _very_ few men could marry Esther after what happened at the Assembly Rooms, confident in the knowledge that his name, status and wealth is more than enough to cover any scandal attached to her. Just look around you,’ if Sidney could conjure up the Mayfair townhouse and place it in the parkland he would. The money. The title. Each piece of art. Every last item that would show Babington all that he was and everything Sidney was not. ‘ _Look at where we are Babington_! You say give it all up for love? You will never have to know what that actually means.'

Babington does not move. Does not speak. His eyes are dark, fixed on Sidney sparked with something Sidney is too angry and too drunk to care to begin to acknowledge.

But, he thinks vaguely, somehow he might feel better if Babington just hits him. 

Sidney waits.

A muscle twitches in Babington’s jaw. Then Babington drops his gaze to the ground, turns around and walks away.


	6. SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House  
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate

* * *

‘Enough of this leisure, Babington. I must be getting back, write to Charlotte and endeavour to reply to my Aunt. I have two unanswered from her now.’

‘I had never considered that Lady Denham would be such a prolific letter writer.’

‘In my experience she is second only to you, husband of mine.’

‘Ah yes, but at the time I think you are judging this by, I had more reason to be a diligent correspondent than your Aunt.’

‘And on a relatively small subject range.’

‘I felt it wise to specialise.’

‘I must admit, there is something to be said for that. I wish my Aunt would narrow the range of topics for her correspondence. Doubtless more thoughts from her pen await my return in Mayfair.’

‘In that case, wait until we return to London? Come, join me for a swim in the lake instead.’

‘I would not wish to scandalise you, husband, with my lack of bathing attire.’

‘That did not stop you before.’

‘It was July, not September.’

‘A matter of a few degrees, my darling.’

‘Be that as it may, I shall leave the lake to you and it’s hardier residents today.’

‘And I shall remain unscandalised.’

‘I am sure I can find other ways to scandalise you, husband.’


	7. SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's Sister - Augusta and she is younger than him. She calls him Freddy which he hates. But then he calls her Tussle which she loathes.
> 
> Babington's Mother - French-Austrian and alive.
> 
> Babington's Father - English and deceased.

* * *

Just FYI!

This is set about 2 - 3 weeks after Esther and Babington's wedding.

These are unconnected drabbles, but just in case this kind of thing bothers you, (coz it bothers me!) this would slot in before the events of chapters four and five.

* * *

Lady Susan surveyed the guests gathered around the table in her dining room. A full complement of Parker family ladies and gentlemen, the Babingtons, Miss Lambe, her dear friend Charlotte. And Mrs Campion. Susan smiled, took a sip from her wineglass, and then turned to her young friend.

‘I think we should play a game, Charlotte.’

‘A game?’ Charlotte smiled, uncertain. ‘What sort of game?’

‘A game of discovery, my dear.’ Susan’s eyes sparkled mischievously, and she saw that her words had caught the attention of Arthur Parker. She glanced from Charlotte to him, inviting him into the conversation. ‘My father had a theory that you could tell the nature of a gentleman by asking him just one question.’

‘One question, Lady Susan?’ Arthur’s sudden exclamation drew the attention of Babington, Tom, and Georgiana.

‘Yes,’ Lady Susan continued, purposefully repeating herself so that all who were now listening could hear. ‘Ask a gentleman just one question and his entire character is revealed.’

Eliza now turned towards Susan, Mary too.

‘Most extraordinary!’ Arthur said, delighted. ‘Let us hear it, Lady Susan!’ Diana and Sidney were now listening, Esther too. Crowe, finding he now had no one else to amuse him, lent a vaguely interested ear.

‘My father’s theory ran thus,’ Lady Susan now addressed all her guests, knowing she had their full attention. ‘An educated gentleman, who has had all the benefit of private tutors, schooling and travel reveals his true nature by the language in which he counts. To ask a gentleman that is to learn of all of them.’

‘Counts?!’ Eliza laughed, incredulous.

‘Counts what, Lady Susan?’ Tom asked.

‘Cards?’ Sidney asked dryly.

‘I _knew_ it, Parker!’ Crowe exclaimed. ‘You rogue!’

‘Cards, money, sums in a ledger, hours in a day.’ Lady Susan explained, her gaze resting momentarily on each of the gentlemen at her table. ‘Time apart from a lover.’ Arthur gasped in delighted shock at this. ‘Anything which occasions a gentleman to count quietly to himself.’

‘Surely, it would be a brave man who would answer such a question and be so revealed!’ Diana glanced nervously around the table, concerned of what she might learn of these gentlemen around her. But, perhaps, a little excited by the prospect also.

‘Oh, our gentlemen have nothing to fear,’ Lady Susan smiled benignly at Diana. ‘I can assure you, Miss Parker you will hear nothing that offends any sensibility or insults any character. My father believed all languages beautiful and so that which a man chooses unconsciously to use reveals only the good of him, not the ill.’

‘If these gentlemen will not tell,’ Georgiana said, glad of anything to prolong the moment when the ladies would withdraw and she would be forced to make a four for a card game with Eliza, Mary and Diana. ‘Then maybe we should _guess_!’ She grinned mischievously.

‘Oh yes! Yes!’ Arthur laughed. ‘A most capital notion, Miss Lambe!’

‘And we have wives, sisters and friends enough for the truth to out,’ Georgiana added gleefully. ‘Gentlemen?’ She addressed the table. ‘Be you brave enough to say it here or know that it will be said in the drawing room without you anyway?’

‘I volunteer myself to be first subject!’ Arthur said, enthusiastically. He gestured around the table. ‘Come, Tom? Sidney? Gentlemen?’

‘Self-discovery is all, Lady Susan.’ Tom bowed and leant eagerly forward. ‘Let us play!’

Babington smiled and nodded his agreement to join, catching Esther’s eye as he did so. Esther was watching all, something was happening, she was sure of it. No game played in such a setting was a benign, clawless thing.

‘Better to be damned to my face than behind my back, I suppose,’ Crowe sighed and made a gesture of weary committal. Sidney drained his wineglass and similarly shrugged.

‘Excellent!’ Arthur beamed. ‘Lady Susan,’ he bowed. ‘Ladies, I invite you to guess!’

‘French!’ Georgiana said.

‘No!’ Arthur shook his head, his eyes bright with glee. 

‘English!’ Georgiana tried again and then turned to her friend for help. ‘Charlotte! What do you think?’

‘Oh, umm,’ Charlotte fumbled a little. She was unsure whether she wanted to be involved in revealing a man’s nature.

‘Come, Charlotte!’ Arthur smiled. ‘Guess!’

‘Italian?’ Charlotte said, saying the first language she could think of.

‘No,’ Arthur smiled gently. ‘And not English either, Miss Lambe,’ he grinned triumphantly at Georgiana who playfully wrinkled her nose at him.

‘Diana? You must know this!’ Georgiana entreated her. Diana smiled at her brother and nodded but did not say anything and so Georgiana continued, ‘Spanish?!’

‘No!’ Arthur laughed. ‘OH! This is too exciting! I shall tell you.’ He paused for dramatic effect and then looked at Georgiana. ‘Latin!’ Diana nodded again and then laughed at Charlotte and Georgiana’s joyfully surprised expressions. 

‘Yes, Latin! You see, my Latin Master at prep school was a most kind fellow,’ Arthur said, his face fond with memory. ‘He would invent games with numbers and words so that we would remember them. The language has quite stuck to me since then.’

  
‘Latin,’ Susan smiled and rested her hand on Arthur’s. The table seemed to turn as one to listen to her. ‘Thinkers on the new and on humanity. Such men are excited and by the world around them and delight in the people they meet.’

‘There now,’ Tom cried, delighted. ‘Truly nothing to fear in the reveal!’

‘Would you be Latin too?’ Charlotte asked him, now happier to engage in the game. ‘From attending the same school?’

‘Aha!’ Tom laughed. ‘Alas no, Miss Heywood. Same school, but that Latin Master arrived after my time there.’

‘Italian?’ Georgiana offered, unsure.

‘No.’

‘Oh, I think I might know this!’ Diana, like Charlotte was now willing to join the game. She looked at Mary, ‘French?’

‘Yes,’ Mary laughed as her husband gleefully grinned. ‘But I suspect my husband owes this more to his childhood nursemaid than the efforts of any School Master. At least to begin with.’

‘We had a French nursemaid, Mademoiselle Suzanne, for a while,’ Diana explained to the table. She sighed fondly and then gestured at her brother. ‘Little Tom was quite besotted with her.’

‘True, true.’ Tom said, gladly owning the accusation as laughter rippled around the table. ‘Then Suzanne left to be married whilst I was away at school. My eight-year-old heart felt truly broken, never to love again until my dear Mary.’ He looked lovingly at his wife, taking her hand and placing a kiss on it as Mary smilingly shook her head.

‘Mr Crowe? Your turn! ‘ Arthur cried.

‘Are we not to hear Tom’s true nature first?’ Crowe asked, hoping to delay his own reveal as long as possible.

‘I suspect yours might be the same as his, Mr Crowe,’ Susan said.

‘Oh, Lady Susan,’ Eliza laughed. ‘You think Mr Crowe and Mr Parker to be of the same nature, the same as –‘

‘No, but of course!’ Diana’s growing confidence in the game had her interrupting Eliza and clapping her hands with the thrill of it. ‘Oh, forgive me, Mrs Campion, but Mr Crowe must be French? Surely, Mr Crowe? From your time spent in Paris!’

‘Time spent in the gambling houses in Paris,’ Sidney said, confirming his sister’s guess.

‘Time _well_ spent in the _finest_ gambling houses in Paris,’ Crowe corrected him. ‘Yes, Miss Parker. You are correct. French.’ He bowed his head at Diana who flushed with triumph.

‘Lady Susan?’ Tom looked expectantly towards her.

‘French,’ Lady Susan paused to remember. ‘French for politicians, debaters. Loyal men with kind minds, quick wits and nimble thoughts.’

‘A well description of the gentlemen in this room who use French thusly, Lady Susan.’ Eliza acquiesced.

Lady Susan bowed graciously.

‘Oh! But wait!’ Diana exclaimed. ‘Surely one must therefore devise that Lord Babington uses French also?’

‘Yes!’ Georgiana challenged Babington, who smiled and shook his head. She frowned, repeating Crowe’s words. ‘From your time well spent in the finest gambling houses in Paris? You were there together were you not?’

‘Yes, Miss Lambe.’ Now that he had passed unscathed through Lady Susan’s game. Crowe was a very willing participant for others. ‘But whilst Babbers spent as much time as I in those gambling houses he was not quite as successful.’ Babington waved away Georgiana’s mock sympathetic expression as Crowe grinned.

‘But,’ Crowe now leaned towards Georgiana conspiratorially. ‘Do _not_ engage in a dice game with Babbers. _Ever_.’ He nodded as though he had delivered a treatise of great import and sat back in his chair.

‘I would be more tempted to say German, Lord Babington?’ Eliza spoke confidently. ‘From your mother?’

‘Sadly, Mrs Campion.’ Babington said self depreciatingly. ‘My German covers only ballroom compliments and light dinner party conversation. I would be useless numerically.’

‘Although he has an exceptionally good line in colloquialisms,’ Crowe said, approvingly. Eliza’s calm expression flickered slightly.

‘Learnt from my cousins of course, not my mother.’ Babington grinned and clarified, to the amusement of the table.

‘Colloquialisms that Lord Babington refuses, in turn, to teach others,’ Esther said with feigned exasperation, her initial unease at the game now forgotten.

‘Be sure to speak with Lady Augusta on that matter, Queen Bab,’ Crowe offered, addressing Esther with one of the seemingly limitless supply of nicknames he had developed to annoy her.

‘Not French, not German,’ Arthur mused, returning to the game. He frowned, thinking on options.

‘English?’ Diana offered. Babington shook his head.

‘Latin!’ Tom said, assuredly. ‘Lady Babington?’ Esther smiled at her husband and shook her head.

‘Greek!’ Lady Susan laughed, knowing her guess incorrect before she even said it. ‘Come, Lady Babington enlighten us!’

‘Italian?’ Mary asked.

‘No,’ Babington laughed.

‘Lady Babington! Tell us before we run out of candle wax!’ Georgiana pleaded.

‘Spanish.’ Esther said.

‘Suarez,’ Crowe said in agreement.

‘Mr Suarez was clerk for my father’s land steward,’ Babington explained. ‘He explained to a very confused thirteen-year-old boy what a ledger actually was and what it all meant. Oftentimes he would say the numbers in Spanish as well as English. That, and’ Babington laughed as Crowe grinned in recognition. ‘There was a demon of a dice player in Paris who advanced my Spanish number skills exponentially!’

‘And dice skills,’ Crowe said nodding at Georgiana in explanation of his previous comment.

‘Spanish,’ Lady Susan said as the laughter at Babington’s closing admission died away. ‘Spanish for travellers, but never wanderers. Men who hold a true north within them.’

Babington inclined his head in thanks towards Lady Susan and was surprised to catch the ghost of a wink from her as she turned her attention to Sidney. Esther caught it too and the unease returned.

‘Now, Mr Parker,’ Lady Susan began. Sidney flinched. ‘Latin?’

‘No,’ Sidney shifted uncomfortably under the expectant gaze of the table. ‘As with Tom, I had left before Arthur’s Latin Master arrived.’

‘Italian?’ Crowe knew he was way off the mark but was enjoying himself far too much now. Sidney frowned at him in annoyance and shook his head.

‘Maybe French? From Mademoiselle Suzanne?’ Lady Susan asked, she looked from Sidney to Tom and back again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Esther thought she saw Eliza nod her head slightly as though she were about to speak.

Susan saw it too.

‘No,’ Sidney said, his posture softening slightly as he looked at his older brother. ‘Although Lady Susan, I will give you that it did use to be.’

‘Used to be? You are indeed an interesting man Mr Parker.’ Lady Susan said. Esther watched as Susan turned her warmest smile on to Eliza. ‘Mrs Campion you must assist us in this!’

‘Far be it from me to reveal a gentleman’s secrets,’ Eliza said hurriedly.

Susan casually allowed a moment or two to pass. Eliza tilted her chin and unblinkingly met Lady Susan’s gaze.

Esther felt her skin prickle.

‘Oh, you are too modest, Mrs Campion! There are no secrets here, we are all friends, family after all!’ Susan said and she suddenly smiled at Eliza again, cloyingly, pityingly. ‘Come! Miss Parker? Miss Lambe?’ Susan continued, but her eyes remained on Eliza.

‘It would not be Spanish,’ Diana said confidently.

‘No, nor German.’ Georgiana added.

‘Greek?’

‘Italian?’

‘We said that already!’

The shouts were beginning to come from all now, Sidney shaking his head at all.

‘Portuguese?’

‘Gaelic!’

‘AH! I have it!’ Crowe shouted triumphantly. ‘Egyptian hieroglyphs!’

The table erupted in laughter and shouts of derision.

‘Hieroglyphs?!’ Georgiana dissolved in to giggles at Crowe’s suggestion and caught Charlotte’s eye. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful?!’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte was laughing so hard at the thought of it she had to pause to catch her breath before continuing. ‘But it is of course, English!’ She laughed again.

The table was suddenly quiet.

‘I believe, you have it, Miss Heywood.’ Crowe said, raising his glass to salute her.

‘Indeed!’ Babington too saluted her.

Sidney made no sign of agreement but, for the first time in the evening, looked directly at her. Charlotte wished he hadn’t. She had no idea why she had suddenly said it, she had not even thought of it had no need to search for the answer. She had just known.

‘Oh,’ Charlotte flicked her eyes around the table, searching for anyone that wasn’t him. ‘I just - I - well whenever Mr Parker was looking at invoices or paperwork at Trafalgar House, he would always count through them.’

‘But your mother tongue, Sidney? After all your travels?’ Arthur was disappointed, but Sidney just shrugged. Arthur appealed to Susan instead. ‘Surely that cannot reveal anything, Lady Susan?’

‘You forget, Mr Parker,’ Lady Susan said kindly, reassuring Arthur. ‘It is a choice made unconsciously by gentlemen who are fortunate to have more than one language available to them. In this instance, it matters not the language they speak day to day.’

‘At least your mind and tongue speak with one voice, Sidney,’ Crowe said. ‘As we have proven the rest of us are babbling linguistic confusions. Tis a wonder we make any sense to anyone.’

‘Indeed.’ Eliza scoffed.

Crowe scowled across the table at Esther. He would have taken the quip from her, even from Georgiana, but not Eliza!

Esther ignored him, she had no time for affronted bachelors, her mind was running back though the conversations. She was beginning to strongly doubt that Lady Susan’s late father would have had any knowledge of this theory that was now being used in his name.

‘English for scientists,’ Lady Susan was saying. ‘But science of emotion and life, not nature and animal. Men who test upon themselves that which they see and experience around them. And test themselves by it also.’

‘There now!’ Diana exclaimed. ‘All gentlemen here present have given good account of their natures!’

‘Most enlightening, Lady Susan.’ Tom said, warmly.

‘Here, here!’ Arthur agreed, slapping the table with his palm. ‘Your father, God rest his soul, is to be congratulated and you to be feted for sharing his discovery!’

Lady Susan smiled graciously as her guests erupted into applause and laughter. Esther joined the applause, but she felt chilled by what she had witnessed. Lady Susan had nerve and daring, appeared to know exactly what she wove into the seemingly harmless game. But her players danced with high stakes on shifting sands and Esther hoped Susan was as in control as she appeared.


	8. EIGHT

* * *

‘Esther.’ His protest is half sigh, half groan.

‘Yes, husband?’ Her reply is quiet with feigned innocence.

‘That.’ Almost lost in an intake of breath.

‘ _This?_ ’ Gently whispering.

‘I haven’t seen you in a week.’ He swallows.

‘Actually, Babington. You were due to return yesterday morning, not this evening.’ She is matter of fact. ‘It has been longer than a week.’

‘I. Know.’

‘So,’ her voice is delicate, intimate. ‘ _This_?’

‘I want to take you to bed and start with that,’ his tone is husky, growling. ‘And then kiss _more_ of you, touch you, see _all_ of you.’

‘And yet,’ her breath catches on the promise of his words. ‘You are not?’

‘Our guests are expected at seven.’ He is tortuously resigned.

‘Our guests are expected at _eight_ , husband.’ She is gloriously accurate.

‘As late as that?’

‘Yes, husband.’


	9. NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.
> 
> Babington's Sister - Augusta (Gus) and she is younger than him. Married to Leo. She calls Babington Freddy, which he hates. But then he calls her Tussle which she loathes. Siblings are just great aren't they?
> 
> Babington's Mother - French-Austrian and alive.
> 
> Babington's Father - English and deceased.
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House
> 
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate
> 
> Alderton - Esther's maid
> 
> Queen Bab - One of Crowe's many nicknames for Esther. Obviously she is absolutely thrilled by this.

* * *

Esther settled the delicate sleeveless lace nightgown on her body, straightening the straps on her shoulders. She turned back to her maid and gratefully took the large silk shawl, still warm from the hot brick it had been expertly folded around, from the young girl’s hands.

‘Thank you, Alderton,’ Esther said as she gathered the expansive folds of silk around herself. ‘Goodnight.’

Goodnight, Lady Babington.’ The maid smiled and bobbed her head.

Esther quietly opened the door connecting her dressing room with the bedroom and slipped through it. It was late, far past midnight, and she was surprised to find the bedroom still dimly lit, a fire glowing in the hearth.

‘I had expected you would be in bed, husband.’ Esther smiled as Babington, cravat-less and in his shirtsleeves, rose from the chaise by the fire to greet her.

‘I did plan to be,’ Babington said, wrapping his arms around Esther, dipping his head to kiss her. ‘But a parcel from Tussle distracted me.’ He indicated two small piles of books on the table beside the chaise, the one he had been reading open in front of them.

‘Hmm,’ Esther reached to kiss him once more before turning in his embrace to investigate the titles, curious. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books, tracing the titles, some German, some French, some English.

‘There is one in particular for you,’ Babington remembered and let go of Esther, moving past her to retrieve his sister’s letter from the wrapping under the table and handing it to her.

_‘Darling Leo insists I have time to write one letter and one only else we shall be arriving at Aunt Maria’s in the dead of night and I must, must write to Mama but I MUST also send these to you. This will therefore be short, and Mama will be instructed to inform you of news from our travels._

_Leo is especially keen for you to see this specific edition of Goethe, Freddy. You already know my opinion on this volume and so I shall bite my pen and save the argument until we see you at Christmas._

_Dearest Queen Bab . . .’_ Esther smiled. She kept forgetting that Crowe was like a second brother to Augusta and as such they told each other everything. Frequently. _‘. . . the Wynne is particularly for you. I had hoped to get more, but I intend to go on a literature hunting trip in the next week or so and then I will send you stacks of her works and others, enough to see you through those snow bound winter days in Hampshire!_

_Yours, (in a terrible haste!)_

_Gus_

‘Save the argument?’ Esther asked. She turned and glanced up at her husband, amused.

‘She detests how the translation has been handled,’ Babington explained as Esther carefully sorted through the pile and found the Wynne, touched by her new sister-in-law’s thoughtfulness. ‘But I have a feeling my Aunt and Uncle may persuade her and Leo to stay for Christmas in Austria, so you might be spared the bloodshed.’

‘They have a month or so yet before then,’ Esther said, she came to sit with Babington on the chaise. She raised a warning eyebrow at him. ‘I would prepare your argument, husband.’

‘I’ll wager I am safe until the new year,’ Babington kissed the top of Esther’s head as she moved to rest against him in his arms. ‘Tussle adores staying with them and my Uncle and Aunt are kindness itself, I don’t think Leo stands a chance at being back in Surrey for Christmas.’

‘Austrian charm and English persuasion,’ Esther said, and then sighed as she realised too late what she had said.

‘A lethal combination, or so I have heard,’ Babington said, and Esther sat up to fix him with a withering stare only to be greeted by her husband’s infuriatingly confident smile. ‘Liebling,’ Babington added, unable to resist teasing her more. He laughed as Esther tried, unsuccessfully to hide her smile.

‘How was your evening?’ Babington steered himself back on to safer ground and stole a quick kiss.

‘Suitably diverting.’ Esther curled herself back against him, her feet tucked under her. ‘Lady Ffoulkes says she will write and invite us to Kent next month when they are there.’

‘Yes, her husband mentioned the same when I saw him today,’ Babington said. He hesitated, his fingers playing with the silk tassels at the edge of Esther’s shawl. He was very aware that in marrying Esther he had uprooted her from all and everyone she knew and placed her in the very centre of the maelstrom of London society where she had known no one. He did not want her to think that his friends had to become hers. ‘Do you think we accept? I know we owe your Aunt a visit.’

‘I think so,’ Esther smiled to herself, knowing what her husband asked. ‘Lady Ffoulkes confessed during the first interval tonight that she prefers the theatre when it is told to her, not sung at her.’ Esther had had to stifle her laughter as the elegant and witty Lady Ffoulkes had caught her eye, given an exaggerated sigh and drained her champagne glass midway through a particularly extravagant second act solo. ‘Just as I was beginning to think I was the only person in London of that mind. I feel it wise to cultivate her acquaintance.’

‘And your Aunt?’ Babington laughed.

‘Will now be the recipient of thrice, rather than twice, weekly letters. Each over-flowing with news,’ Esther said calmly. She sat up, turning to look at Babington again. ‘And, if it can be managed, a two week visit before Christmas?’

Babington nodded, but looked at her, serious for a moment. ‘You are sure?’

Esther propped her arm on the back of the chaise and raised her hand to tilt her head against it. ‘Babington,’ she said levelly, ‘You have known Sir Andrew Ffoulkes for well over a decade. I have known his wife for two weeks. Of course, I am sure.’ She laughed as Babington smiled and ducked his head against her shoulder for a moment. ‘I am not a Sidney Parker of this world who needs the seawater once a month else I grow wings instead of fins.’ Esther kissed his cheek and then rested her head against his. This man who had become everything to her. ‘I am where you are, Babington.’

Esther said it so lightly, so assuredly that Babington almost missed it. Quickly he raised his head from Esther’s shoulder. She smiled at him, meeting his warm gaze, then leaned forward and kissed him deeply, lingering against him.

‘My darling,’ Babington said, and he gathered her in his arms and on to his lap. His hands crept beneath the edges of her shawl, finding the delicate straps of her nightgown.

‘Mmm,’ Esther sighed into his kiss and then pulled away slightly, her fingers tracing Babington’s jawline and trickling down his neck to his open shirt, a hand running through his curls now bought more blonde than brown in the firelight. ‘Should we start working on an argument for that Goethe translation now, husband?’ She teased him; her lips still very close to his. ‘Although I shall need your assistance with the original text.’

‘Maybe tomorrow,’ Babington growled.

* * *

In the intimacy of their bed, Esther trailed her fingers over Babington’s body, the contours of him warm against her.

She breathed him in, alive in this moment because he was with her. Breathed with him and the familiarity of him, the perfect intimacy of being with him.

Esther's touch began to stumble and falter as Babington floated his hands and kisses, feather light, across her skin and she rose to meet his caresses, her body curving and flowing under him as he pulled her senses taught with each one of his breaths, each stroke of his fingertips.

When finally, Babington entered her, the sensation was so immediately intense and pure that Esther cried out in relief. She had never felt so with her body, so sure of what she needed. Without even thinking about it, Esther slipped her hand in between them, reaching for that tiny, secret place on her body which Babington’s talented fingers had bought to life for the first time on their wedding night.

Babington’s movement stuttered as he realised what it was Esther intended, his mind fogged with desire and lust from what they were doing was now instantly alert, aroused to what his wife was doing. 

‘Don’t stop.’ Esther whispered. ‘Harry,don’t stop.’

‘ _Christ.’_ Babington groaned, beginning to move again, feel what she was feeling. _‘Esther._ ’

Esther was not as sure in her touch on herself as her husband. But Babington had bought her so close that a just few moments of her gentle, exploring fingers had her tumbling over the edge and she cried out with the relief of it again, opening her eyes and looking up at Babington as she succumbed to the pleasure of it. Of him.

‘ _Harry,’_ she sighed. ‘. . . _harry.’_

Babington had never seen her look more beautiful.

* * *

They lay awake awhile, the single candle on the stand beside the bed casting flickering shadows.

‘Esther,’ Babington began. Esther smiled, tucking her head against his shoulder.

‘Babington?’ Esther replied. She knew what he was thinking, but she was going to make him say it.

‘Have you -,’ Babington stopped, glanced down at her and then laughed at her wide eyes, blinking innocently up at him.

Esther took pity on him. ‘Well, you are a thorough tutor, Babington.’

‘Tutor?’ Babington was incredulous. ‘Tutor?! God, you make it sound so scientific!’

‘Would you prefer,’ Esther paused, teasing him as she appeared to think very carefully about which words to use. ‘ _Very_ thorough _husband_?’

‘Well, I _was_ hoping for thorough lover,’ Babington sighed in exaggerated acceptance. He smiled and turned on his side to face her. ‘But I will take being described as a very thorough husband.’

Esther hummed in amusement and moved closer to kiss him.

‘And a husband very much loved, Babington.’

* * *

It was late when they woke the next day. But the bed was soft and warm and, for once, both their mornings were free of appointments, so they lingered.

‘I quite forgot,’ Babington said suddenly, as they talked of nothing and everything. ‘I have something for you.’ He smiled at her surprise, kissed her, and got out of bed to retrieve something from his dressing room. He returned a moment later with a slim square box in his hands.

‘The necklace your mother mentioned?’ Esther asked, a little embarrassed. She had been quite overwhelmed at the generosity of the Dowager Lady Babington when she had been shown the Babington family’s jewellery collection. Esther had been invited to choose whatever she liked, assured she could return at any time or request any piece to be sent to her. There had been a necklace that was being cleaned and the Dowager had arranged to have it sent to Esther so that she could see it.

‘No,’ Babington got back in to bed and handed her the box as she sat up, the bedclothes a careless tangle around her. ‘No, this is something else.’

Esther slowly turned the large square box in her hands so that the clasp was facing her. She glanced up at Babington who was now sitting back against the pillows, trying not to watch her too closely. Esther pushed the catch and opened the box.

‘Bab – Babington,’ Esther stammered. Her eyes snapped to her husband again and then back to the box. Lying inside, elegantly aglow with the reflected light of the soft grey London morning was a simple, beautiful diamond necklace. Tiny stones started at the clasp and graduated in perfect size increments to slightly larger ones at the front and yet the whole seemed connected as one. The jewels she had been shown by Babington’s mother were beautiful statements, magnificent in their glory. This necklace was exquisite with delicacy, she had never seen anything that was so finely made.

’I confess I bought it mainly for my peace of mind and concentration, but I hope you approve.’ Babington said lightly.

‘Its – I,’ Esther could not stop staring at this beautiful thing nestled in the box in her hands. Unbelieving that it could possibly be hers. Completely, fully hers. She finally found her voice. ‘ _How_ is this for your peace of mind?’

‘The fastening.’ Babington said, as though that explained all and then grinned as Esther frowned. ‘Much more sensible.’

‘Sensible?’ Esther repeated. She dared herself to touch the flow of shimmering stones, running a finger gently over their crisp smoothness.

‘Do you have any idea how distracting those bows at the back of your neck can be?’ Babington said, laughing. But he was only half joking. Those ribbons against Esther’s alabaster pale skin sometimes made his fingers itch to untie them and feel them slip through his hands as he kissed her neck. ‘When you walked across the Blackstone’s saloon the other night, I could have gambled away the deeds to Hampshire and not realised!’ He indicated the box in Esther’s hands. ‘This does not have such a maddening distraction.’

‘No,’ Esther fluttered a smile and looked up at Babington. ‘But Babington! This is -’ she stopped, unable to find the words. No one had ever bought her anything so beautiful, so fine. The generosity left her breathless, reeling. Very carefully, Esther placed the box to one side and took her husband’s face in her hands. ‘Thank you,’ she kissed him, moved to put her arms around him, bring him nearer. ‘Thank you, Babington.’ She kissed him again.

Babington grinned. ‘Try it on,’ he said.

‘I’m hardly appropriately attired!’ Esther laughed. She leaned back from Babington and gestured at her nakedness, pushed her fingers through her tousled hair.

‘Hmm,’ Babington ran his hand over Esther’s body. He could not help but disagree. ‘Do you want to wait until you feel you are appropriately attired?’

‘It should probably -’ Esther began and then paused. She bit her lip through her smile, it _was_ the most exquisite thing ‘. . . no ‘ she sighed. Babington reached past her and picked up the necklace. He kissed her shoulder as she turned away from him and she swept her hair from her neck as he placed it on her.

The diamonds were cool against her skin, but Esther could feel how the fine links of the settings moved almost instinctively to settle against her collar bone. She turned back to her husband.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, kissing her. He nodded at the large mirror that hung on the wall between the two windows, inviting her to see for herself.

Esther laughed as she untangled the bedclothes from around herself and slipped out of bed to cross to the mirror. This was ridiculous! She turned back to Babington to protest, but he grinned and nodded again at the mirror. Esther sighed, laughed again. She knew this exquisite necklace deserved her as Lady Esther Babington in her most beautiful dress and her hair tamed into intricate twists by Alderton’s skilled hands.

And yet.

She beheld her reflection. Her curls tangled into uneven strands that she knew Alderton would despair of later, her body cold after the warmth of the bed, but skin whispering with the memory of her husband’s touch and kiss. And at her neck, the strand of diamonds glimmered and moved as she did, as though part of her. It fit to her, not she to it.

Esther bought her hand up to touch the necklace, catching Babington’s eye in the mirror as she did so. She smiled and turned to face him, trying to find how to begin to tell him what he meant to her, what this gift meant to her.

‘My darling,’ Babington said, his eyes bright as he looked at her, beautiful in the clouded morning light.

‘Husband.’ Esther’s voice was soft, the word lingering joyously on her tongue.

Babington held out his hand. ‘My darling,’ he said again. Husky, loving. ‘Come here.’


	10. TEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.
> 
> Babington's Mother - French-Austrian and alive.
> 
> Babington's Father - English and deceased.
> 
> Deacon - Babington's butler in London. They have been through ALOT together. 
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House
> 
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate

* * *

Just FYI!

The next three chapters will follow on from the argument between Sidney and Babington in Chapter Five. Very basic and brief highlights/recap of what was said are at the start of this chapter.

* * *

. . . ‘You wanted to know what it is about being married? . . . You wanted to know what it is to be in love with your wife? To know, not just believe, but know that she is in love with you? What it is to have that? It is _everything_ Sidney. More than any town or family or reputation. So much more. And you had it within reach. You were _proposing_ Sidney. Not thinking about it, actually saying the words . . .’

. . . ‘Very, _very_ few men could marry Esther after what happened at the Assembly Rooms, confident in the knowledge that his name, status and wealth is more than enough to cover any scandal attached to her. Just look around you . . . _Look at where we are Babington_! You say give it all up for love? You will never have to know what that actually means.' . . .

Babington comes very close to hitting Sidney when he mentions Esther in such a way. Anticipating a satisfying crunch of fist on bone, Babington stills himself and clenches his hand in readiness. But then Parker’s final words throw a realisation of his own behaviour back at Babington with such force it is as though Parker had hit him.

Instead, Babington, a turmoil of anger and hurt, turns and walks away from his friend. Sick to his stomach, the bile rises in his throat and he vomits into the spoil heap behind the hothouses before slowly, eventually, making his way back to the house and up to bed.

A heart full of guilt and a mind loud with anger is more than enough to ensure Babington gets only a scant few hours of fitful rest. However, losing the contents of his stomach undignified as it was, is a mercy of relief against what would have otherwise been a godless hangover. Therefore, the next morning he is up well in time to join the gamekeepers as they check the traps and walk the boundaries of the estate.

Accompanying the keepers like this is a routine Babington has most mornings in Hampshire. His father used to do the same, taking his young son with him as soon as he could walk the distance required without complaint and some of Babington’s first memories are of these early mornings, crisp and mist edged in winter, quiet with dawn warmth in summer. He would follow behind his father and the men, snatches of their conversations floating back him, the reassuring rhythm of their boots on path and field, the gun dogs curiously nudging and jostling him.

This morning, the fresh air and exercise do him good and Babington ignores his headache and the tiredness pricking at his eyes. After last night, he needs this routine as much as he ever has, more than just for the physical recovery it brings.

It recentres him.

The house in Mayfair is business and entertainment and runs to a gloriously unpredictable schedule. But estate here in Hampshire sets its own rhythm, has done for hundreds of years and it rightfully demands Babington’s time and respect. Its fields and parkland, its farms and the people within it are imprinted on his soul. The years of his life have been marked by the turning of its seasons, the celebrations and traditions of generations of his family and those who live and work alongside them here.

‘No one man is deserving of all this, Frederick,’ his father used to say. ‘It is guardianship of this estate and title, not ownership, that you will inherit. Do good by it, do good with it and leave it better than you found it.’

This morning, Babington feels more undeserving of his inheritance than he ever has and his careless entitlement, thrown at Parker in a hideous rant, deserved every word of Parker’s response.

Except for what Parker said about Esther.

The early autumn dawn is slow, and the shadows are still long as the gamekeepers complete their routes and meet back together at the lane leading up to the stables. They stand and talk a short while, the dogs circling and sniffing around them and Babington watches the head gamekeeper’s quiet pride as the new underkeeper shyly but knowledgably joins the discussion about the upcoming shoots.

Babington takes his leave of them all and walks the long way back to the house, up to the lake and then through the spinney of trees which, on this side of the gardens, mark the informal boundary between them and the parkland. He pauses at the edge of the trees, the parkland behind him the house and formal gardens in front.

He breathes deeply.

Babington is all too ready to apologise to Sidney for his drunken, ignorant rant, he has been for hours. Ready to forget, as there is no need to forgive, Parker’s words to him, but Babington knows he must also forgive those heinous implications Parker made about Esther. They were spoken in a drunken, pain-filled rage that his own angry, selfish words provoked in his friend. But Babington is struggling.

He sits, leans back against a tree at the edge of the spinney and watches as the view in front of him is slowly bought to a glow in the early morning sun.

He will apologise to Sidney.

He will apologise to Sidney and await his friend’s response.

He must and will forgive all if asked.

* * *

The house is still very much asleep when Babington returns, and so he indulgently goes back to his own bed. A couple of welcome hours of deep sleep has Babington waking with a calmer mind, nearer of himself.

The Parkers and Crowe are due to depart today and so Sidney’s absence at the late breakfast Tom, Arthur and eventually Crowe join him at is conspicuous only to Babington. The others dismiss it as better to sleep off the effects of the night before on a feather bed than in an ill-sprung carriage.

The morning post brings letters. Amongst them one long in detail asking questions of Sanditon and availability from Lord Blackstone which he passes to a delighted Tom, and one of barely four lines from Esther, but all of her for that and Babington recounts the time remaining until her arrival this afternoon.

The last few hours before departure slip peaceably by. Arthur takes a gentle constitutional in the gardens whilst Tom lingers over the morning papers and delightfully reads and rereads Lord Blackstone’s letter. His guests happily occupied, Babington puts himself to work in the library with estate ledgers and overdue correspondence, Crowe joins him for a while and Babington is glad of the company. Initially Crowe looks as though he expects Babington to talk but then he chooses a book, apparently at random, and settles into one of the deep armchairs.

When Babington glances up after a half hour or so, Crowe is gone.

* * *

‘Babington.’ Babington had left the library door open so that he might hear when Sidney came downstairs, but his work has distracted him more than he realises. He startles slightly and looks up. Sidney comes a few paces in to the room, uncertain.

‘Last night, all that I said,’ Sidney begins. He makes himself look Babington in the eye. Sidney has lain awake for hours, barely slept at all, going over and over the argument as his stomach and head punished him for the recklessness of the previous evening. ‘About you. About Esther.’

Any lingering doubt Babington might have had over whether he would be able to truly forgive Parker disappears the moment he sees him, hears those words. Every one of Sidney’s thoughts since they left each other last night are etched on his face, heavy in his voice. Babington can see the remorse and shame in him, the cold light of day allowing no shadows to fall on words spoken, even in drunken anger.

‘It is forgotten, Parker.’ Babington says, relieved that he can say it and know it to be true. ‘Please, come and sit.’ Babington crosses the room to greet his friend. His brother in all but blood. 'You were right, I can never understand what it is to face such a choice as you did. I was crass and insensitive, acted like an over privileged, narrow minded aristocrat of the worst kind. Please,’ Babington gestures towards the chairs by the fireplace. ‘My words provoked yours. I apologise.’

‘Harry, I cannot let you excuse my actions like that.’ Sidney takes a few paces towards the windows rather than the fireplace, gathers his thoughts about what he knows he must own most of all. He turns and faces Babington. ‘Harry, what I said to you was shameful but what I implied about Est-,’ Sidney stops and corrects himself. He is apologising for what he said about the wife of a lord and feels it right he should address her as such. ‘What I said about Lady Babington was unforgiveable. I apologise unreservedly. To you and to Lady Babington.’

Babington, even though he has already forgiven Sidney, is grateful for the words and acknowledges them with a nod. ‘It is forgotten Sidney. Forgiven.’ He says firmly, stepping forward and holding out his hand. ‘We have been friends too long.’

‘Christ, Harry.’ Sidney sighs, he takes Babington’s hand and shakes it warmly and then shakes his own head in disbelief at himself. He smiles ruefully at his friend. ‘You have done nothing but try and help. And all I can do to thank you is to grievously insult your generosity, your family and your wife.’

‘You think we would know ourselves better by now,’ Babington places a hand on Sidney’s shoulder. ‘Limit our late-night discussions to safer topics such as politics!’ He smiles and gestures again towards the chairs by the fireplace.

Sidney looks at him then suddenly laughs and exhales, tumbling carelessly into a chair. Babington takes a seat himself on the ottoman a little way in front of Sidney, watches him as he slumps back against the cushions.

Babington had hoped that these few days in Hampshire would help Parker, but as Babington looks at him now, even allowing for the late night, Sidney looks worse now than he did when they arrived. Babington frowns. He has seen Parker with a broken heart and troubled mind before, all those years ago soon after they met. But even allowing for the passage of time and memory, Parker seems more troubled, ill at ease in himself than before. Darker. He is not raging against something, more losing to it.

As though sensing himself being watched, Sidney raises his head and pulls himself into a more upright position. He smiles at Babington, fleetingly. ‘Tom mentioned a supper at Mayfair when you return to London?’

‘Yes,’ Babington mentally shakes himself out of his thoughts. ‘Lord and Lady Blackstone have expressed an interest in taking a house in Sanditon and meeting with you and Tom. I thought a supper would be more suitable than an investment meeting. Informal.’

Sidney laughs and shakes his head. ‘Damn you, Babington,’ he says softly. An acknowledgement, not a curse, his words full of affection. Love for this most steadfast of men, of brothers.

‘Thank you, Babington.’ He says. A genuine and wide smile, painfully rare nowadays.

‘Introductions, supper and let Tom talk!’ Babington is quick to dismiss his friend’s thanks. Sidney huffs in amusement and nods. He looks at his friend.

‘Esther comes this afternoon?’ He asks gently and watches Babington’s expression shift. It is barely perceptible, but for a moment Sidney can suddenly see how much Babington has missed his wife these past few days.

‘Yes,’ Babington’s voice is soft and his hand unconsciously rests for moment against his pocket that contains Esther’s letter from this morning. Other revelations from the previous evening come to his mind now that the argument is cleared between them. He looks away into the fireplace for a moment. ‘I still cannot believe you thought to send me back to her that night,’ he says quietly. ‘I will be forever in your debt for that, Sidney.’

‘Miss Esther Denham would always have become Lady Esther Babington, Harry.’ Sidney says, with a certainty that surprises Babington. ‘Had it been that night or the next day or week. ‘Besides,’ he continues. ‘My first thought really was to get you away from Sir Edward. I genuinely thought were going to do him some serious harm.’

The dangerous calm of complete stillness in Babington that night when they had led Sir Edward away as he drunkenly alternated between hideous insinuations about Esther and lacerating attacks on Babington’s character had shocked Sidney. It had been unnerving to see such lethal potential in his friend.

‘Sir Edward?’ Babington is laughing in disbelief. ‘You would save _him_?’

‘My first thought would, of course, have been to save Sanditon from such scandal, Babington.’ Sidney says and cannot hold back a small smile as Babington laughs again. Sidney sighs and stands, rolls his shoulders, stretching slightly as though readying himself. ‘I best check my room, my clothing from last night may not have been left in easy places for your man to find to pack.’

Babington smiles and stands too. ‘Tom mentioned that Mary might travel to London, Diana too,’ he says lightly as they cross the library to the hall. ‘If Bedford Place feels crowded, you know you are welcome to stay at Mayfair the next few days.’ Babington treads carefully across his offer to his friend. ‘Or whenever you need to. Deacon always knows to expect you.’

‘I know,’ Sidney nods. He stops as they reach the stairs and makes as though to say something more.

Sidney is all too aware the number of people in his life who would stand beside him through all, still be there when the smoke has cleared and all others have left, is dwindling. Over the years he has lost more of them than he has gained. His father and mother, of course.

Mr Lambe.

Tom.

There is another. But Sidney knows he lost her before he had the privilege to know rather than hope.

A moment passes.

‘I know,’ Sidney says again.

‘And get some sleep between now and when I see you in London,’ Babington gently laughs, purposefully breaking through all the unsaid. ‘You look like hell, Parker!’

Sidney grimaces in recognition and then turns to climb the stairs to begin to prepare for the journey back to London.

Back to London. Back to the business of Sanditon.

And always, always, with the near constant companionship of those thoughts that tear at his mind. Sometimes quietly, sometimes so loud Sidney knows he could shout for hours and still not drown them out.

God, but he feels so damn tired. Bone tired. Heart tired. Soul tired.

* * *

Babington stands with Crowe in the hallway a while later, waiting with him in the bustle and hurry as the luggage is loaded and the Parker brothers gather to leave.

‘How was my mother?’ Babington asks. Crowe had not said where he went when he disappeared from the library this morning, but Babington does not need to ask. The Dower House is merely a mile away and Crowe has known the Dowager Lady Babington more than half his life.

‘Your dear Lady Mama was well,’ Crowe is unsurprised by the question. ‘Radiant and gracious as ever and looking forward to receiving you and Esther tomorrow. She says to say thank you for the fruit yesterday, I’ve left her note for you on the table.’

‘Thank you,’ Babington smiles, then lowers his voice slightly. ‘What are your plans for the next few days?’ Crowe knows this is not a diary enquiry.

‘Sleep. Gentlemanly pursuits’ Crowe says. Shrugs. ‘Hunt Parker if he goes to ground. Fish him out of whatever bottle he is in.’

Babington turns towards him. ‘Call in at Mayfair if you can?’

Crowe nods.

‘See if Sidney is there.’ Babington continues. ‘Stay if he is?’ Crowe nods again. ‘Of course, stay anyway, but talk to Deacon if Sidney is not there. See if he has been.’

‘It really is not like before,’ Crowe says, a statement, not question. ‘Is it.’

‘No.’

* * *

The carriages depart in a melee of clattering hooves and shouts of leaving and thanks. Gently the house envelopes itself in quiet and Babington returns the desk in the library, hoping the remaining paperwork will distract him from watching the clock that does not seem to move.

It works and he does not hear the most listened for of arrivals.

‘And I half expected to come up the drive to a smouldering ruin after three days of the brothers Parker and company.’ Babington’s head snaps up from the ledger at the sound of her voice. Esther, her brow raised in amusement, stands in the doorway of the library still in her hat and coat.

For a moment Babington simply stares at her before he remembers himself and hurries to stand to go to her.

‘Thankfully,’ Esther continues, smiling as he comes towards her. ‘It appears house and husband are both still standing.’ She wraps her arms around Babington’s shoulders, reaches for his kiss.

‘Crowe was an invaluable aide-de-camp’ Babington says, smiling and his lips brush against Esther’s as he speaks. ‘In ensuring both.’

‘I shall be sure to mention him in despatches.’

‘God, Esther,’ Babington laughs and dips to kiss her again. Longer, lingering. ‘It is good to see you.’

Esther sighs and runs her hand down his back, holds him close to her. ‘It is good to be seen, Babington.’


	11. ELEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.
> 
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate

* * *

Just FYI!

This chapter, the previous one (TEN) and the next one (TWELVE) form a follow on from the argument between Sidney and Babington in Chapter Five.

* * *

The wide grass path is alive with the shifting patchwork of afternoon sunlight flickering through the trees that line its sides and arc overhead to meet leaf tip to leaf tip.

They walk slowly. Esther, having noticed the quiet of something in her husband, talks a little of her time in London. Gently she coaxes words from Babington.

Gradually, Esther talks less as Babington talks more, tells her everything.

The argument. The apologies. All that he said. All that Sidney said.

Esther listens. Her husband’s guilt and self-blame. Sidney’s helpless anger.

She cannot find the right words to comfort him, does not want to fill the silence with the pretty phrases and lightweight words of reassurance that repeat themselves and mean nothing. Instead, Esther slips her hand from Babington’s, puts her arm about his waist and holds him close to her side, rests against him as they walk.

Quiet physical comfort. Strong at Babington’s side. He puts his arm across her back, rests his hand at her hip.

God, but he loves this woman.

This thought reignites that which Babington has been unable to shake off from last night, even after he and Sidney had spoken this morning, even now that he has told all to Esther and his heart is lighter. That, but for a different decision, everything he shares with Esther may never have been.

If Babington were in his normal confidence and spirit he would never think to ask. The question would not even cast a shadow on his mind. Thinking on a problem to find a solution is one thing but no good comes from thinking on what-might-have-beens, Parker is evident of that. But now, with his thoughts still raw from all that has been said over the past day, Babington finds he understands something of their morbid appeal and the words are forming in his mouth, crossing his lips.

‘If Sidney had not sent me back to the Assembly Rooms after he and I had removed Sir Edward,’ Babington speaks quietly. 

‘Babington?’ Esther stops walking, turns towards him slightly.

‘If you and I had not spoken that night would you still have accepted me, seen me even, if I had come to Sanditon House the next day?’ Babington asks. Immediately he hates that he has spoken and looks away, wishing he could take the question back, not have selfishly mentioned something he knows was so difficult for Esther. He can remember just how humiliated, defensive she was.

Babington turns back to face her, but he cannot bring himself to look at her and so dips his head in silent, reverent apology. Esther steps forward, cradles his head in her hands and rests her forehead against Babington’s.

She sighs, concerned at his doubt and all that has bought him to it. But she cannot lie to him. Would never lie to him.

Even now as she stands with this man whom she deeply loves, Esther knows there is a chance that her shame at the scandal and being so exposed that night would have meant she could have refused to see Babington the next day. Might have rebuilt those walls that she felt safe behind and seen him only to send him away. Perhaps begged a small allowance from her Aunt, found some distant relative on the continent and taken herself away from everything.

‘ _Harry_ ,’ Esther breathes. All the love she has for her husband.

His name on her lips is always deeply intimate, loving and Babington closes his eyes as his heart leaps at the sound it, at once humbled and graced. How _could_ he think to seek Esther’s assurance when he already has everything he could possibly desire? He feels her hands cupping his face, her lips press against his for a moment.

Esther sighs again, closes her eyes for a moment, frowns against those things that did not happen. She knows cannot speak to cover a might-have-been, but she can confirm reality. They are here together. Now.

‘But you did, husband of mine.’ Esther’s voice is soft, intimate and Babington lifts his head to look at her. ‘You did come back that night.’

Gently, slowly, Esther flutters kisses on Babington’s lips again. He smiles a little, exhales deeply.

‘ _Husband_ of mine.’ Esther says again softly but looking at him intently to be sure Babington is fully appraised of their situation and when he smiles again it lingers slightly longer. He nods, slowly slips his arms around her waist.

Esther smiles too and leans back slightly, trickles her fingers through his curls. ‘And you can be _very_ persuasive Babington,’ her voice is still soft, warm, but lighter now. Coaxing him out of himself. ‘As I find myself wholly committed to you. Three times over, in fact.’

‘Three times?’ Babington’s smile is now more himself, welcomes her gentle, sure tone. The familiar lightness it brings to their conversation. Esther looks at him, quietly challenging him to guess. ‘Well,’ Babington begins a little cautiously. ‘I suppose, legally and in front of witnesses?’

‘That is one, husband.’ Esther confirms and flutters a kiss to Babington’s lips. She purposefully glances in the direction of the estate church where they were married barely two months ago.

‘In the sight of God,’ Babington continues, his eyes brightening with amusement at Esther’s obvious hint. Another kiss of confirmation. Esther can see Babington’s confidence finally beginning to fully return after all they have spoken of. All the self-doubt of the argument last night. ‘And . . ?‘

‘And’ Esther smiles, leans back once more and looks at Babington with absolute certainty. Loving, not teasing. ‘I am, very much, in love with you.’

Babington does know this. Esther has told him, shown him in countless ways, but she says it rarely and the sudden complete matter of fact of her statement winds him slightly.

‘It is considered highly unfashionable to be in love with one’s husband,’ Babington recovers, his tone light but his eyes are warm as they look at her. ‘Or so people say.’

Esther tilts her chin, looks him straight in the eye. ‘I don’t give a damn.’

‘Esther!’ Babington laughs in delight, not shock. His beautiful, extraordinary Esther.

God, but he _loves_ this woman.

‘You have me, Harry.’

‘ _Esther_.’ Babington holds her close, buries his head in her neck.

‘You have me.’

* * *

The path sweeps around, back towards the house. Hand in hand, they slip quietly inside and up the stairs.

It begins as a gentle rediscovery of one another after the few nights apart. Esther’s fingers even stumble a little on the buttons of Babington’s waistcoat but then find a surety as he pulls his shirt off over his head and she can place her hands on his body, her kisses on his heartbeat.

She turns in Babington’s arms as he loosens the laces at her back, twisting so that her stays fall away from her and to the floor. She moves towards the bed, turning back and reaching out her hand for Babington to follow, anticipating the exquisite weight of his body on hers. Instead, with a look of desire in his eyes that makes Esther’s breath catch in her throat, Babington drops to his knees in front of her as she sits on the edge of the bed. Smiling, he tilts his head up to meet her kisses as he gathers the lightness of her shift in his hands, pushing it high up on her thighs.

With a slowness that has Esther sighing in need, Babington strokes his fingertips up her legs. Her kisses silently plead with him and, all at once, Babington’s hands reach that perfect place where the coolness of silk stocking becomes the warmth of Esther’s thigh. The ribbon garters begin to loosen under his touch, and he lowers his head to press his lips along those perfect intimate lines of stocking tops.

Esther falls backwards on the bed, moaning in glorious in surrender as her husband’s kisses and hands creep upwards with tantalising purpose.

Babington’s tongue is gentle, but Esther finds herself responding with an intense urgency that leaves her senses chasing themselves to a climax before she knows what is happening. He stops as it begins to ebb away but does not move and his finger starts to stroke slow waves inside her. Suddenly what was ebbing away is building again. A longer climb this time and then it is a deepness of bliss that encompasses Esther.

'. . . _harry . . .'_

A soft, seemingly endless caress. Total in its completeness.

* * *

Esther looks up at Babington as he moves on top of her. Her are eyes dark, stormed with their reunion, smiling lips parted with breathlessness from his touch, his kiss, his body. Babington dips his head, kisses his wife, begins to lose himself to her.

He cannot believe how he thought to question this most sacred of his realities.

* * *

_‘Stay_ ,’ Esther whispers when the shivers of Babington’s own climax are slowly ebbing away. She puts her arms tight around him, presses her thighs against Babington’s hips.

‘Stay with me, Harry,’ she whispers against Babington’s neck, his heartbeat thundering under her lips. 

The precious, intimate familiarity of him on top of her, inside her.

‘I love you,’ he says softly, deeply, scattering ragged breathed kisses to her lips as her hands flow over his back.

And he stays in her embrace and she holds him close.

* * *

Later, in the still of early evening before the sun begins to set.

Babington watches as Esther, sitting sideways to him on their bed with her legs bent over his, carefully unfolds the messy gathers of stockings and garters just above her knees, abandoned there when he stopped removing them to remove her shift instead. Babington smiles, reaches out and runs his fingertips over her hip.

‘Husband,’ Esther says huskily, then she smiles and leans over to quickly kiss him before focusing back on the confusion of silk and ribbon. She sighs, quirking an eyebrow at him in mock irritation at the tangle he created.

Babington laughs. He sits up and Esther props herself back on her hands as Babington steals one more kiss before he sets chastely to work on the knots and creases with careful fingers.

But, after a few moments he looks up at her.

Because they did speak at the Assembly Rooms that night.

Because she did accept him.

Because they are here together.

‘Husband,’ Esther admonishes as Babington once again abandons the knots of ribbons and uneven folds of silk in favour of putting his hands on her body.

‘I love you,’ Babington grins. He says it almost as a reason, an answer and Esther cannot help but laugh as Babington reaches for her, holds her close against him. She returns his deep, long kisses then sits back slightly and looks at him. His eyes are clear, now bright with that surety he has that Esther loves so much. She realised she has taken it for granted almost, until today. He smiles again, leans forward, and kisses her cheek, her jawline, begins to press his lips to her neck.

‘Did you join the keepers this morning?’ Esther asks suddenly. Whilst Babington was dozing peacefully beside her, Esther had been thinking on an idea of how she might begin to support him more, help Babington in his life. Seeing her husband so fully of himself for the first time since she arrived has spurned her to begin to say it.

Babington, who was just about to float his hand from Esther’s waist to her thigh, trail his kisses from her neck to her breasts is stunned to stillness for a moment by the unexpected question. He huffs in surprise and looks up at Esther.

‘Yes,’ he says, with a small smile of confusion. Esther nods, appears to consider on something and then looks at him again. Thinking the conversation over, Babington lowers his head to her neck again. ‘I thought I might as well make use of being awake,’ he adds mischievously.

‘If you join them again before we return to London, might I accompany you?’ Esther asks. She does not want to encroach on his routine and traditions, but this estate is her husband, he is of it. She would stand beside him, with him. Come to know it as he does.

Babington’s lips stop a breath away from Esther’s collarbone, his hand hovers over her hip. He sits back and looks at her for a moment, half surprise, half realisation. Esther feels her heart flutter a little. Perhaps she has asked too much.

‘Maybe another time?’ Esther retreats slightly, but she keeps her voice light. ‘When we are here for longer?’

‘No. No, my darling. Of course, you can join us!’ Babington laughs. ‘Whenever you wish!’ He takes her hands, looks up at her. He cannot begin to describe what her simple request means to him. ‘You truly want to?’ 

‘Yes, Babington.’ Esther smiles and she leans in to kiss him. ‘I do.’

‘ _My_ darling,’ Babington wraps his arms tightly around her and kisses her.


	12. TWELVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's Father - English and deceased.
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House.
> 
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate.

* * *

Just FYI

OK, so I lied/got carried away.

Instead of 3 chapters forming a follow on from the argument between Sidney and Babington in Chapter FIVE it is going to be 4 - TEN, ELEVEN, TWELVE (this one) and THIRTEEN.

* * *

The early evening air is still, calm. Esther sits in Babington’s arms on the wide, deep sill of the open attic window, her head against his shoulder, back against his chest. To their right, just below them, a short flat roof extends to a low stone balustrade beyond which an uninterrupted view of the estate unfolds. It was the knowledge of how glorious this view is at this time of day that finally tempted them out of bed. Now, dressed in a careless modesty of clothing, they watch as the gardens and parkland blaze honeyed gold with the setting sun before gradually softening into purple shadows.

‘I received a letter from Aunt this morning,’ Esther says. They have been drifting in and out of a conversation on Sanditon, Sidney and Eliza for a while now. She runs her fingers along Babington’s arm at her waist, rests her hand on his. ‘Lady Susan has visited and taken tea with her.’

Babington smiles. ‘Your letters of her to your Aunt have been more successful than you thought then?’ He reaches for his cheroot from the dish beside him.

‘It would seem so,’ Esther says cautiously. ‘Aunt had been so quiet on the subject I had thought it dead, but she informed me they have been corresponding regularly for a week or so now.’

Esther had grown frustrated by her Aunt’s refusal to do anything but threaten to remove her investment. Lady Denham had much to gain by Sanditon’s survival and, Esther had tried to reason with her, the potential of her list of eligible suitors and their wealthy families should at least be explored. Lady Denham had flatly refused but Lady Susan had thought it worth pursuing. So more in hope than expectation, Esther had started carefully reintroducing Lady Susan in letters to her Aunt, hoping to encourage a stronger acquaintance.

‘Lady Susan’s quiet perseverance deserves _much_ praise,’ Esther is still disbelieving Lady Susan will manage to get beyond her Aunt’s bristling refusal.

‘Perhaps, but that they met at all is your diplomacy, Esther!’ Babington grins, kisses Esther’s forehead. Gently he shifts her against him, retrieves his tinderbox from the pocket of his tailcoat that is draped around her shoulders. ‘Did Lady D say how it went?’

‘Aunt was elusive on the details, but she mentioned they talked at length.’ Esther settles back against Babington, gathering her hair over her shoulder and tucking it inside the tailcoat’s lapel. 

‘Well even though the situation is not as dire as it was after Midsummer, Sanditon needs investors. Investors require to be known and Sidney and I are fast tearing through all we know,’ Babington says. Esther watches his hands complete the routine of tinderbox and flame as he relights his cheroot. ‘If Lady Susan can persuade your Aunt-’

‘Cautious optimism, husband.’ Esther smiles, placing her hand lightly on his knee.

‘Always,’ Babington nods sagely and puts the tinderbox beside him then glances down at Esther, catches her eye. ‘My darling diplomat,’ he adds, grinning and putting his arm at her waist once more. ‘Also, Lord Blackstone wrote this morning, making enquiries about houses.’

‘I thought he might, Lady Blackstone has been very enthusiastic about Sanditon since she first heard about it.’ Esther says. She breathes deeply as the cheroot begins to smoulder, catching the edge of its spiced sweet scent as the smoke curls away into the evening air. She loves the smell of the tobacco blend Babington favours. He rarely smokes around her, but the scent always holds a deep, intimate association for Esther as she can smell it on Babington’s skin sometimes, occasionally taste it in his kisses.

‘Yes,’ Babington is laughing. He glances down at Esther again. ‘I think Blackstone is considering making an investment too, so I thought to have them and Tom and Sidney to Mayfair. Perhaps the night after we return?’ Esther nods. ‘If they do invest it will be small, but not insignificant.’

‘They may bring others too,’ Esther says, stroking her fingers across Babington’s arm again as she feels his chest rise and fall at her back. ’As others have before them.’

‘Let us hope. It will make Tom happy.’ There is a small edge of worry to Babington’s tone and Esther tilts her chin up to flutter a kiss to his neck. Babington smiles then sighs. ‘And Eliza too, as Tom was saying he writes or visits her most days now with updates on investors and plans for Sanditon. At her request.’ He offers the cheroot to Esther.

Smoking is not a habit Esther indulges in often now. But, as she has tonight, she likes to join Babington occasionally. At Denham Place, when Edward was away for days and nights at time, Esther would sometimes take the cheap, perfumed cheroots from the box in his room and smoke them. Just because she _could._ She never smoked with Edward though. It was something that was hers, not theirs.

‘It is admirable that Eliza wants to know all she can of Sanditon,’ Esther says pragmatically. She takes the cheroot from Babington. ‘After all, it is Eliza’s money that is set to be buried in Sanditon’s new foundations. Her marriage that Sanditon is currently dependant on.’ Esther continues thoughtfully. ‘And whatever her marriage is, or involves, Eliza now seems to be determined to make a success of it. To be happy.’

‘She is as Tom in that,’ Babington says mirthlessly. It is observation, not insult. ‘When Tom talks of Sanditon, it is Eliza talking of her marriage.’ He slips the cheroot from Esther’s offering fingers, inhales deeply. Esther can hear all too familiar concern of her husband for his friend in his words and as she sits up and turns to face Babington, she can see it in his eyes. Esther knows she has not seen Sidney how her husband has seen him. To her, Sidney appears attentive, perhaps a little tired sometimes. He is always quiet now though, and her husband’s ongoing concern for him is deeply rooted.

Babington leans back, tips his head against the stone window frame. Esther gently rests her hand on his chest and Babington looks at her.

‘The situation is not as dire as it was after Midsummer,’ Esther repeats Babington’s own words back to him.

‘No, not nearly as dire.’ Babington smiles, straightens up and places his hand over hers. ‘As you know there is much still to be done, but the commitment needed from Eliza’s money is not as great as it was.’

‘And Sidney knows this?’ Esther confirms. He must do, she never saw him nowadays that he didn’t have letters in his hand or papers in front of him.

‘Sidney knows this,’ Babington lifts her hand from his chest, flutters a kiss to her fingertips. ‘When it comes to Sanditon and his business there is nothing Sidney doesn’t know. It is himself he does not seem to know anymore.’ Babington frowns then reaches out and, with intimate care, tucks a heavy strand of Esther’s hair that has twisted loose back under the lapel of the tailcoat.

‘Perhaps once Sidney and Tom have met the financiers again tomorrow it will help Sidney find some confidence for the future,’ Babington continues. ‘Especially if the repayments can be restructured. He might begin to think again of how to speak with Eliza about her becoming investor rather than wife. It was a possibility before they became engaged.’ He hesitates then adds, regretfully, ‘a short-lived possibility.’

’New investors and enquiries do not break an engagement on their own.’ Esther says quietly. She takes the cheroot from Babington and watches the smoke skitter into the air as she exhales. She looks out to the gardens.

Esther has had some ugly conversations in her life and it would be an ugly conversation that Sidney and Eliza would have to have. Vile, painful and with the potential to have consequences that reached far beyond wounded pride, broken reputations and deep heartbreak. But, until Sidney and Eliza started talking to each other, rather than at or around each other, the whole country could invest in Sanditon and they would still marry.

A light evening breeze is beginning to patchily flurry and it pulls sudden thin curls of smoke from the cheroot as Esther offers the last of it to Babington.

‘Sidney _must_ speak with Eliza somehow. And soon.’ Babington says. He finishes the cheroot and presses its end on the dish beside him. Then, in conscious naïve hope, he adds, ‘or maybe Eliza has begun to realise Sidney Parker now is not the Sidney Parker she loved ten years ago.’

‘Eliza loves Sidney. Of that there is _no_ doubt,’ Esther looks back at him and smiles a little sadly. ‘Be it the Sidney he is now, the Sidney she remembers or the Sidney she thinks he will be.’ 

Esther shivers a little. Love could be a cruel and unusual dictator as well as a magnificent empowering thing and Eliza could spend the rest of her life chasing the affections of a man who would never love her.

Then Esther tilts her chin into the breeze.

Ugly conversations could have good consequences too.

Esther slips her bare arms into the sleeves of her husband’s tailcoat, tucks her feet beneath the hems of her dress and petticoat. Babington watches her then places a hand on her shoulder and gently pulls Esther into him, settling his arms around her as she rests against him, surrounded by her life, her husband. She places her hand once more on Babington’s chest over his heart.

‘The whole situation might be a mess, Esther.’ Babington says, looking down at her. ‘But I still refuse to believe it is impossible. Not yet. If the investments and enquiries keep coming as they are. If Sidney and Eliza can find a way to talk, properly.’ He frowns, then adds, his voice decisive, ‘if Sidney can get back to himself. God, I hope he finds his way to Mayfair these next few days, or Crowe finds him and takes him there.’

For all that their argument last night marred today, Babington had seen Sidney find some peace for a few hours across the days they had been here. Perhaps at Mayfair Sidney could find the same peace, a chance to think beyond all the demands made on him.

Or just get some sleep.

‘If he is not there when we return and you wish to fetch him from Bedford Place, I am sure I could distract Tom’s attention for the required time.’ Esther says. Her tone is matter of fact, her offer sincere.

‘As much as I hope Sidney is at Mayfair now,’ Babington laughs. ‘I would very much like to watch you distract Tom.’

‘Rather defeats the reason for the distraction, husband.’ Esther smiles and she feels Babington’s chest rumble with laughter again. She looks up at him and he dips his head to kiss her gently.

The sun is sinking below the treeline now, the breeze circling and fussing through Esther’s untidy loose curls, fluttering at the open collar of Babington’s shirt. They should probably go back down and dress for supper soon, Babington thinks. Or maybe just dress a little more properly than they are and take supper in the library.

Babington smiles to himself as his beloved father, whose presence he felt so strongly with the gamekeepers this morning, comes to his mind again. He suspects that his kind, mild-mannered father would once again make his presence known if Babington even thought of entering the dining room here dressed as he is now, without a cravat and waistcoat. Or tailcoat.

His father would be far too much of a gentleman, however, to comment on the fact that his son’s wife was currently not wearing her stays or stockings.

Babington smiles again, lingers a kiss on to Esther’s temple, the top of her head, tucks his tailcoat closer around her as she leans further into him. Maybe they will just have supper in the library.

He tips his head back against the stonework once more, his eyes drift over the gardens and parklands and he sends a silent prayer of love to his father’s gentle soul.

Then a silent, fervent prayer for peace to Sidney.


	13. THIRTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Deacon - Babington's butler in London. They have been through ALOT together.
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House
> 
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate

* * *

Just FYI

This is the last of 4 chapters (TEN, ELEVEN,TWELVE and THIRTEEN) forming a follow on from the argument between Sidney and Babington in Chapter FIVE.

It is not An End to The Problem but, hopefully, an end to what started with Sidney and Babington in FIVE.

* * *

'I don't think badly of you.'

For the first few days after hearing them, Sidney Parker holds on to those words as talisman and he strives to live up to them. If he can do that then maybe he can become the man he felt he could be. The man who deserved to think of her and to hope. 

Somehow, it becomes less talisman and more of a taunt. The more his days are spent preparing for business meetings and Sanditon investment discussions, his evenings at suppers and balls, the further away Sidney feels from himself becoming that man. He tries harder, prepares more diligently. He reads everything, answers each letter, checks each ledger, each bill. He listens more, is quiet but attentive with well informed and researched opinions and views.

But Sidney Parker becomes less his own and more everyone else’s. He blames himself for not being enough, for anyone, for getting so close to almost having _everything_. He feels guilty for not being enough, not giving more when he should. He gets angry and argues with himself, with his heart with his situation. He always loses these arguments in a spiral of bitter self-recrimination.

He narrowly avoids losing friends and family when his anger lashes out. Of these, little Henry was undoubtedly the worst, his eyes huge with teary disbelief when Sidney suddenly snapped at him.

It had taken a very large iced bun and an afternoon just him and his Uncle Sidney for Henry to forgot all about it.

It had taken Sidney days to even begin to think about forgiving himself.

Now, well over two months on from the decisiveness that had him chasing down that carriage, Sidney finds he cannot remember what it is to have his head and mind fully his own. He is constantly accompanied by a heavy morose presence in his mind and an ever-changing cacophony of voices from his recent weeks in his head. Always demanding more and never letting him forget a future secured by him for others at the expense of himself. 

‘-We simply must attend the Duchess’s ball, everyone will be there! Say that we will, my love?-’

‘-You and dear Eliza will come to Sanditon for the concert won’t you Sidney?-’

‘-What is this little village of your brother’s I have heard so much about from Mrs Campion? My sister is quite set on taking a house there.-’

‘-And you trust her now Sidney?-’

‘-Mr Sidney Parker? Brother of Mr Tom Parker? Are you going to try and sell me a sandcastle too?-’

‘-We should hold a supper party at Bedford Place to truly welcome Mrs Campion to the family. She is to be a Parker! Sidney you must let Mary and Tom know when you will be available!-’

'-Sandton? Sandion? Oh San- _di-_ ton!-'

‘- But why don’t you visit us more sooner Uncle Sidney? You promised you would come!-’

‘-We cannot extend your brother’s credit yet, but if investments keep coming in as they are then we may see to lengthening the repayment period. Can your brother demonstrate this rate of investments is sustainable?-’

‘-And you are to be married! Eliza said you found each other again after ten years apart? Oh Mr Parker, it is too impossibly romantic I must insist you tell me everything! Did you see each other and just know?-’

‘-It is _where_? Why would one want to go all that way when everyone is in Brighton?!-’

‘-I worried for your happiness Sidney. You are happy now, aren’t you?-‘

'- And there are houses to buy as well as rent? Tell me more Mr Parker!-’

Then, always when Sidney is at his lowest and the voices at their cruellest;

‘-I don’t think badly of you.-’

And, for a breath, he can _feel_ her, and she is everything.

Then the voices taunt and laugh louder and crueller than ever and the thoughts of worthlessness claw and scratch and, just so in this moment he won’t have to feel anything, Sidney gives over another part of himself to that constant heavy morose presence who tells him it, and it alone, will always be with him. 

Let us take you, it tells him. Forgot you, let us be you. We can be you it assures him, just watch.

It is easier that way. Easier to be all things to everyone and nobody to anyone.

It is harder that way. Harder to care about what is happening.

* * *

As the walls of the hours and days begin to close in on Sidney, he finds he craves silence, to feel and hear nothing. He doesn’t seek oblivion just a pause. Therefore, increasingly, once all his commitments have been fulfilled for the day and night, Sidney Parker turns his back on company and work and goes somewhere. Anywhere. Just to lose being Sidney Parker for a while and find the pause he is looking for.

He finds it in Hampshire for a few hours most days he is there. He finds it when he is able to get to Sanditon and sea-bathe. He has it most of all when he is able to sleep dreamlessly and peacefully for more than an hour. In London he just walks for hours, or rides for miles. Tonight, however, his second night back in London after the few days in Hampshire, Sidney is drinking. Alone.

‘Holy Hell, Parker you’re a hard man to find!’

Sidney does not need to look up. He knows it is Crowe.

‘Come on. You’re staying at Mayfair,’ Sidney is not sure if that is a question or a statement, but he does not resist when Crowe pulls him to his feet. ‘I shall sign the guest register there tonight too. I think we could both benefit from Deacon’s immaculate care.’

Sidney is not drunk, not really. But one bottle on an empty stomach, countless sleepless nights and a head full of noise has taken its toll.

He finds himself in a carriage. Then he is being led up the front steps of Babington’s Mayfair townhouse. Then somehow Sidney finds he is undressed and in a warm, soft bed with linen sheets than smell of fresh, clean air and wide, cloudless skies.

Sidney closes his eyes and hopes not to dream.

* * *

‘Parker didn’t stay here last night, did he?’ Crowe asks, his voice low as they walk back along the corridor.

‘No.’ Deacon too speaks quietly.

‘But he was here this morning?’

‘Yes,’ Deacon replies. ‘Very early this morning. He worked in the library until just after midday.’

‘Well, at least that means he would have eaten something?’ Crowe asks.

‘A tray was requested, but it was untouched when he left.’ Deacon says.

‘He may need a dose of your miraculous gunpowder tonic tomorrow morning,’ Crowe sighs. 

Deacon nods.

‘Now,’ Crowe stifles a yawn, it has taken him longer than he expected to hunt Parker down. Much longer. The man had very clearly not wanted to be found. He rubs his hand over his face. ‘Might I avail myself of my usual room, Deacon?’

‘Of course, Mr Crowe.’ Deacon smiles and indicates the furthest door. ‘Your man sent a bag as requested.’

Crowe nods his thanks and turns to go, but then hesitates.

‘As it seems, Deacon, that you and I are now both lieutenants in this until Babbers and Mrs Babbers return, could I request to be woken at seven?’ Crowe is worried, not resentful. ‘And if it can be managed –‘

‘Tea and a measure of gunpowder tonic at seven?’ Deacon smiles.

‘You are a prince amongst men, Deacon. Thank you.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Crowe.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Deacon.’ Crowe clumsily salutes the butler and takes himself to bed.

* * *

It is three or four hours of exhausted unconsciousness, rather than sleep, that Sidney manages until the voices in his head drag him to wakefulness with vicious glee. He lies awake in the dark as they shout and laugh at him about all he did not try hard enough to do and all he still needs to achieve.

The next morning, as every morning now, Sidney attempts rolls away the heaviness of his mind, with little success, and rings for hot water to wash. He begins to search for his clothes and attempts to convince himself that yesterday’s shirt and cravat will serve until he can get to Bedford Place and change. But Sidney has forgotten already what it is be a guest of Babington’s. The households of both Hampshire and Mayfair treat all who cross their thresholds as family and Deacon prides himself that Mayfair especially always looks after its own.

A footman promptly brings Sidney not only the hot water he requested but an immaculate shaving kit, his waistcoat and breeches that have been aired and ironed overnight and new linens.

The footman is accompanied by another carrying a tray with coffee.

‘Compliments of Mr Crowe, sir.’

and a glass of what Sidney knows from grateful experience is gunpowder tonic.

‘Compliments of Mr Deacon, sir.’

After breakfast Sidney asks Deacon to arrange for a bag to be sent from Bedford Place. Crowe, relieved, delicately crosses through ‘. . . _will hopefully be persuaded to stay. . . ‘_ and replaces it with ‘. . . _is staying_ . . . ’ in the letter he is writing to Babington.

Sidney writes a note to Tom to explain that, by him staying in Mayfair it means Bedford Place will feel less crowded now Diana and Mary are due. It is just for a few days Sidney writes. Promises himself.

‘ _No need to explain, brother!’_ Tom’s note of reply that accompanies Sidney’s valise reads _‘Of course you would want to stay in Mayfair! So much closer to Grosvenor Square and your dear Eliza!’_

Sidney burns Tom’s reply immediately. He is not really sure why.

On his second night in Mayfair, Sidney manages another four hours of unbroken sleep before the rampages of his mind wake him. He has had more sleep the last two nights than he has for weeks in London or Sanditon.

He feels somehow quieter here. Even with the intermittent arrivals and departures of Babington’s friends who, Deacon knows, are welcome whether or not Babington is home; Crowe, Lieutenant Lightwood, Lord Russell, a handful of others. The house is respectful to all and therefore is treated with respect by all.

* * *

Babington and Esther return to Mayfair, as planned, late on the evening of Sidney’s third night there. Deacon directs them to the library where they find Sidney asleep in a chair in front of the fire, Crowe and Lieutenant Lightwood thoughtfully engaged in a card game at the table.

‘He’s been like that for an hour,’ Crowe says softly once greetings have been quietly exchanged. He frowns at the cards in his hand.

‘Drifted off almost mid-sentence,’ Lightwood says. Then he smiles, could it be that he is going to win a hand off Crowe?

‘I would have woken him, sent him to bed,’ Crowe shrugs. He looks at Babington. ‘But –‘

Babington nods and Crowe looks back at his cards. He seems to consider drawing another but then just carefully rearranges those he has and lays them down on the table. He looks up at Lightwood and smiles.

Lieutenant Lightwood, always a gentleman to the very tips of his epaulettes, remembers just in time that Lady Babington is present.

* * *

  
The following evening, Esther watches from the bed as Babington moves around their bedroom, snuffing out the candles. ‘I have to admit Tom, Sidney and Eliza are a formidable combination,’ she says.

‘Impressive aren’t they?’ Babington smiles. ‘Eliza does not often come to these meetings, but when she does she makes her presence known.’

‘They almost convinced me to think about taking a house in Sanditon next summer,’ Esther says, her tone surprised. She had watched with growing admiration as Tom sold his Sanditon dream to the Blackstone’s, Eliza talked to Lady Blackstone about the social events and gentile clientele beginning to frequent Sanditon and Sidney explained the investments and returns expected.

‘Do let me know if you would like a meeting set up with them to discuss options, Lady Babington,’ Babington grins mischievously. 

Esther tries to bite back her smile and fails completely.

‘Lord Blackstone confirmed they will take a house and he is meeting with Sidney tomorrow for investment discussions,’ Babington continues. He turns and looks at her. ‘How did you find Sidney tonight?’

‘As he is always now,’ Esther says. ‘Attentive. Knowledgeable. Quiet.’

‘Yes,’ Babington turns back to the candles on the mantlepiece. ‘As always.’ He sighs, he catches Esther’s eye in the mirror. ‘He is losing against this, Esther.’

‘At least he sleeps here,’ Esther says gently. ‘Or seems to.’

Yes,’ Babington says again. ‘And the Blackstone’s investment looks almost certain and I think Lady Susan’s influence on your Aunt might be beginning to show.’

‘Hmm, ’ Esther sighs as Babington comes towards the bed and sits beside her. She rests her hand on his shoulder. ‘Cautious-‘

‘-optimism,’ Babington nods. ‘Always, my darling.’ He kisses her. ‘Lord Blackstone will be here for luncheon tomorrow if you are at home?’

‘Another time, husband. I am meeting Lady Ffoulkes after my appointment in Kensington and I really must catch up on some correspondence tomorrow afternoon.’ Esther frowns, she still needed to write a thank you note to Lady Hastings and she cannot for the life of her recall where she left Charlotte’s letter this morning. ‘Then tomorrow night, the opera.’ She shudders slightly.

‘Ah yes, with Lady Susan and Eliza,’ Babington says. ‘Together. In a confined space.’

‘Mary will be there too,’ Esther says. ‘It is her presence that had Lady Susan suggest the evening in the first place. That will lessen the –‘ she hesitates to find the right word.

‘Bloodshed?’

‘Potential for confrontation, husband.’ Esther says critically.

Babington laughs and stands up to remove his Banyan, slipping his hands in to the pockets before he does. He frowns and takes out an opened letter. ‘Lady Esther Babington,’ he reads from the address, he looks up and hands it to Esther with an amused expression.

‘Thank you,’ Esther says airily, she places it on the table beside the bed. Then she smiles. ‘I _am_ going to ask my modiste to make me a Banyan,’ she says.

‘I know,’ Babington says. He does not believe her for a second. 

‘I am!’

‘I know.’

* * *

It is not until breakfast the next morning that Esther realises she has not even begun to understand exactly why her husband and Crowe have spent all these weeks growing in concern for Sidney.

She looks up from the newspaper she is reading as she hears footsteps approaching the dining room. With Lord Russell just departed for his day and Babington gone almost an hour now, there is only one left it can be. But her intended words of greeting are forgotten as Sidney enters the room.

Sidney Parker looks dreadful.

If Esther did not know better, she could well be convinced that it is apparition not man before her. Sidney is dressed immaculately as always but is pale, hunched. He looks exhausted and almost shadowed, as though carrying more than himself.

Sidney looks up from the stack of envelopes in his hand and stops dead in his tracks.

He had not expected her to be here, Esther realises. This is the Sidney that her husband sees, Crowe too.

‘Good morning,’ Esther says lightly and looks back at the newspaper in her hand. She casually turns it over as though to continue reading the article, wanting to give Sidney time to gather himself. After a moment she glances up and Sidney seems to remember himself. There is a shift in his expression, a dullness goes from his eyes, his chin seems to lift, his shoulders to roll back. It is almost as though he puts himself on his body.

This is the man Esther recognises as Sidney Parker. Quiet rather than exhausted. Upright rather than shadowed.

‘Esther,’ Sidney bows his head slightly. ‘Good morning.’

Esther nods in return and casually drops her eyes back to the paper as Sidney, with studied care, takes a seat at the table to Esther’s left.

‘I am about done with The Times if you require it,’ Esther says, her eyes still on the paper, her tone light. She flicks a finger at a crumpled, scattered newspaper to her right. ‘Or, The Post if you prefer and can fathom has been done to it?’

‘Thank you, but -,’ Sidney indicates the envelopes he has placed beside him and reaches for the tea pot.

Esther nods, shuffles quickly through her own, smaller, pile of letters and wordlessly hands Sidney the paper knife from underneath them. She returns her attention to the article.

‘Did Babington leave already?’ Sidney asks as he opens his first letter of the day. He is feeling exposed by not expecting to see Esther. He had just assumed she would take a breakfast tray in bed as she had yesterday morning.

‘Yes,’ Esther looks up at him. She knows that Sidney is aware of her husband’s plans for the day, the two of them had spent the entire of yesterday together. ‘And all other temporary residents of the house too. So, unless there is something you really wish to talk of, we need not make polite conversation, Sidney. I am sure there is enough unnecessary noise in your life and I have not had enough tea.’

Sidney nods, relieved and they sit in companionable quiet for good quarter hour or more.

It is Deacon who breaks the silence.

‘Lady Babington.’ Deacon bows. ‘A note for Mr Parker.’ He smiles and offers the salver to Sidney.

‘Thank you, Deacon,’ Sidney sighs as he takes the envelope. ‘From Tom,’ he says, immediately recognising his brother’s enthusiastic hurried hand.

Esther hums non-committedly in response and nods her thanks to Deacon as he bows and leaves. Then, she pours more tea for herself, offers the same to Sidney and refolds the newspaper to start on a new article. She waits, as she has been for the past quarter hour or so, for Sidney to come to her if he wishes to.

‘It seems that there has been more new enquiries.’ Sidney reads from the note in his hand. ‘Tom is to return to Sanditon until tomorrow evening.’

‘Is there not an agent appointed now?’ Esther asks. Perhaps Lady Susan’s influence had worked after all.

‘Yes, but,’ Sidney shrugs. ‘Tom –‘ he shrugs again.

Esther nods, takes a sip of tea. Returns to the newspaper.

‘I should probably return to stay at Bedford Place today then,’ Sidney says quietly. Regret and responsibility hang over him. ‘Diana is due to arrive this afternoon.‘

‘Mary and Arthur will be there? Are there now?’ Esther asks.

‘Yes,’ Sidney clears his throat and begins to accept he should move back with his family. He loves them, it is just easier here. ‘But I have already stayed here too long, longer than intended – ‘

‘Nonsense, Sidney.’ Esther interrupts him. ‘Of course, be there to greet Diana but there is no reason not to continue your stay here. At least until Bedford Place fully empties of Parkers next week.’

Sidney huffs in amusement, but still looks doubtful.

‘Well, if you feel you must leave us, then for the peace of this house and my own sanity I beg you to do two things.’ Esther sighs and puts the newspaper down.

‘Your servant, Lady Babington,’ Sidney nods politely, he tries to clear some space in his mind for the lady whose house he has been so grateful to stay in.

‘Return twice daily at least to collect your mail as I cannot face the task of forwarding it on,’ Esther nods towards the neat twin stacks of opened and unopened letters in front of Sidney. He idly flicks his thumb through the unopened envelopes. ‘Then please ensure that one of these daily visits includes a half hour appointment with Babington to assure him you are well and thriving as he will worry terribly otherwise.’ Esther looks at Sidney intently. ‘Promise me these two things, Parker and I will gladly take it upon myself to inform both Deacon and Babington that you have left.’

Esther catches a twitch of a smile on Sidney’s lips.

‘Although, such a twice daily commitment could be very time consuming. You might end up chasing all over London and back.’ Esther says, as though she had just thought of it. She begins to gather and tidy her own small pile of opened letters. ‘So perhaps you had better stay, for your good,’ Esther says simply, she looks up at Sidney and quirks an eyebrow at him.

‘Very well, Lady Babington,’ another smile twitches at the corner of Sidney’s mouth. ‘I will stay. For that and for your sanity and for Babington’s peace of mind.’

‘I am much obliged to you Mr Parker,’ Esther bows her head solemnly, but her eyes are alight with amusement. ‘Now,’ she continues, finishing the last of her tea and glancing at the clock. ‘If you will excuse me, I am due in Kensington.’

Sidney stands as Esther does, moves to take her chair.

‘Thank you,’ Esther nods.

‘Esther,’ Sidney begins. Then stops. As much as he wants to, he knows he cannot stay here at Mayfair indefinitely. Take advantage of this too long. ‘Thank you, I will stay the week then return to Bedford Place.’

Esther turns towards Sidney. He looks halfway between who he was when he came into the room and who he shows the world. Nowhere near the man she saw at the cricket match. At midsummer. He has come to her and now she meets him coming back.

‘It is unnerving to be in a place, a situation, that gives everything and asks for nothing in return.’ Esther says, looking closely at Sidney. ‘Unsettling, as it never questions worthiness. But don’t fight it, Parker. You will injure yourself before you injure or insult others. Long before.’

Sidney looks away for a moment.

‘Stay here and find something else to fight Sidney.’ Esther says.

Sidney seems to take a deep breath. Then he nods. He looks at this woman who he knew by sight for years but only really came to know these past few months. ‘Harry is fortunate to have you, Esther.’

‘Ah, you pay a pretty compliment, Sidney,’ Esther says as she collects her neat pile of correspondence from the table. She smiles. ‘But we both know the only person Babington is fortunate to have is Deacon. The rest of us, I fear, he merely tolerates out of politeness.’

And Sidney smiles. 


	14. FOURTEEN

* * *

‘Care to dance, my darling?’ he asks.

‘Thank you, but this next is promised to Parker,’ she says. ‘I owe him a quadrille from Lady Hastings’.’

‘You owe me a dance too,’ he smiles. ‘If you are bestowing debt repayments.’

She frowns.

He waits.

‘Last night in the garden does not count, husband.’ She laughs in realisation.

‘Yes, it does.’ He is absolutely sure.

‘It was dark, we might have injured ourselves,’ she explains.

‘There was moonlight, and I would have ensured your safety,’ he counters.

‘Physical safety perhaps,’ she challenges. ‘But I believe I am morally safer with Mr Parker. He knows where to place his hands, Lord Babington.’

He frowns.

She waits.

‘The floor at Lady Hastings’ was very crowded, my actions prevented a collision.’ He laughs in realisation.

‘You no doubt ensured the physical safety of many, husband.’ She is comically sure.

‘And I did apologise,’ he offers.

‘You did,’ she acknowledges.

‘At the time and again later,’ he further offers.

‘Indeed,’ she further acknowledges.

‘You didn’t seem to mind it was dark then,’ he recalls.

‘Babington!’

‘And you didn’t seem to mind where I put my hands either,’ he muses.

‘. . . Babington . . .’

‘Or fingers,’ his breath murmurs across her cheek.

Her pulse quickens.

‘Or mouth,’ his whisper flutters against her ear.

She breathes. Shakily.

He smiles. Wickedly.

‘Or-‘

‘You endanger yourself, husband.’ Her voice is huskily low.

‘Morally or physically?’ His voice is deceptively calm.

_‘Entirely_.’


	15. FIFTEEN

* * *

Just FYI!

This is set in the week where Sidney is in London looking for investments for Sanditon following the fire. 

* * *

The gentle breeze after the heat of a London summer’s day meant the air inside the magnificent ballroom at Carlton House hung with the scent of blossoms drifting in from the gardens. It also provided welcome relief from the warmth of the saloon for two old friends who, having lost a lot of money in a shockingly short space of time to that devilishly lucky Mr. Crowe, now stood watching the dancing.

‘Who is that exquisite creature dancing with your Lieutenant Cornell?’ Sir Samuel Blackstone waved his hand in the vague direction of the crowded floor.

Colonel Knowles gaze flickered over the couples, searching for the young Lieutenant of his regiment, wondering if he had gotten up the nerve after all. He had! The Lieutenant’s dance partner was a rare beauty indeed, skin almost luminously pale, red hair, large eyes. Her movements beautiful in their preciseness and economy.

‘A Miss Denham,’ the Colonel said, still watching the couple. ‘Or so my wife informed me.’

‘Denham?’ Sir Samuel mused over the name. ‘Denham. Was that not the name of the gentleman at the next table to ours in the saloon?’

‘Yes, although if they are related, they do not seem close.’ Colonel Knowles paused and took a sip from his glass. ‘Did you not observe when they passed each other there? They barely glanced at one another.’

‘Perhaps estranged if related then,’ Sir Samuel said dismissively. He drained his glass before collecting another two from a passing footman.

‘Well, I know nothing of him and little of her, but from this evening I’ll say this for Miss Denham,’ the Colonel took the offered glass from his friend. ‘I’ve known swords less dangerous.’ Sir Samuel turned towards him, intrigued. Colonel Knowles sipped from his glass and continued. ‘Earlier, I overheard young Viscount Chichester confidently informing Miss Denham that he had been compelled to ask her to dance. She asked him exactly what had compelled him. When he replied that it was her beauty,-’

‘Naturally,’ Sir Samuel interjected. ‘Chichester always has fancied himself a poet.’

‘Well, quite!’ Colonel Knowles laughed ‘But Miss Denham then asked him whether he made all his decisions based on something so fleeting and recommended he choose something more constant!’

‘Good Lord!’ Sir Samuel chuckled. ‘And did he?’

‘The poor chap took a few moments and managed to stutter out some reply or other which I did not catch, but she did accept his hand for the dance.’

‘And Lieutenant Cornell?’ Sir Samuel gestured again towards the dancers.

‘Oh, he heard it too!’ Colonel Knowles grinned widely. ‘I should imagine it took him a full turn about the room and a half glass of his majesty’s very excellent claret to work up a speech and the courage!’ They laughed and both turned as the dance ended and watched as a beaming Lieutenant Cornell politely returned Miss Denham to her party. Sir Samuel caught the young man’s eye and beckoned him over.

‘Lieutenant!’ he greeted Cornell as he approached. ‘You have been captured I fear!’

‘Indeed!’ Lieutenant Cornell laughed, his smile wide. ‘Willingly so! By a beauty with regal bearing enough to rival England’s own Queen Bess! But,’ Cornell sighed, ‘the lady is to be married.’

‘To whom?’ Sir Samuel asked, glancing at the Colonel whose wife always knew everything, but Colonel Knowles shrugged.

‘I confess did not catch the fellow’s name,’ Lieutenant Cornell admitted. He had been too caught up in trying to think of clever things to say and not let himself get too distracted by the amusement that flickered in Miss Denham’s eyes when he did.

‘Ah! Here is someone who might know,’ Colonel Knowles cried, pulling the young Lieutenant from his reverie. Knowles nodded towards the ballroom entrance as two young gentlemen crossed the threshold, catching their attention and indicating they should join them. ‘Babington! And Mr Parker is it not?’ 

‘How goes the investments, Mr Parker?’ Sir Samuel asked as the men greeted one another.

‘They are progressing. Thank you, Sir Samuel.’ Sidney forced himself to smile. The investments weren’t progressing of course, not nearly as much as needed despite himself and Babington trying every door they could think of. Sidney didn’t know why he had even allowed himself to hope it would be otherwise. There was only one way this was going to be resolved and he had known it for a while now. The only bright spot in this entire week would be if what he had planned for tonight came off successfully.

Christ, he needed a drink. He tried to catch the eye of a nearby footman whilst half listening to the conversation around him.

‘Babington,’ Sir Samuel was saying. ‘You know all and everyman. Who is the fortunate brave rogue engaged to this court’s new Queen Bess?’ Lieutenant Cornell blushed.

‘Queen Bess?’ Babington frowned at Sir Samuel who nodded his head across the room towards the small party that contained Esther Denham and Mary Parker.

‘Miss Denham!’ Sidney said and smiled, genuinely this time. His plan had worked! His smile grew only wider as he heard Babington’s intake of breath beside him.

‘How is she here?’ Babington murmured. He flicked his gaze from Esther to Sidney and then back again, seeing but not quite believing.

‘Ah you have her acquaintance Mr Parker?’ Colonel Knowles said, not seeing the quick, victorious glance Sidney gave a still disbelieving Babington. ‘Perhaps you know the man’s name?’

‘Miss Denham and my sister in law, Mrs Parker, are in London as my guests for a few days,’ Sidney explained. He was in desperate need of Mary’s calm, wise council and had written asking her to come. Almost as an afterthought he had suggested she invite Esther also and, seeing Babington’s expression shift from surprise to joy, he was very glad he had. ‘Come gentlemen, let me introduce you.’

‘Mrs Parker, Miss Denham,’ Sir Samuel and Colonel Knowles bowed as Sidney made the introductions, Lieutenant Cornell nodding in reacquaintance. ‘A pleasure.’

‘Mrs Parker,’ Babington dragged his gaze away just for a moment to greet Mary before looking back at Esther. God, he had missed her! ‘Miss Denham, I did not know you were expected?’ he laughed. Esther smiled at him, at his surprise.

‘You really should pay more attention to the names your friends add to your guest lists, Lord Babington,’ Esther said, her brow creasing in mock judgement before sharing a quick triumphant glance with Sidney. Babington grinned at his friend, unbelieving that amidst all his troubles Sidney had thought to arrange this. He bowed to Esther and held out his hand.

‘Allow me to begin to make amends, Miss Denham,’ he said with that confident smile that, Esther had discovered, was infuriatingly irresistible. She was helpless against her own smile as she reached out to take his hand.

Sir Samuel, Colonel Knowles and Lieutenant Cornell stood momentarily in stunned silence.

‘Gentlemen,’ Sidney’s arm extended towards Babington and Esther as they walked away in case anyone was in any doubt. ‘I present Miss Denham’s intended.’

‘Good Lord!’ Colonel Knowles exclaimed. ‘That is to say . . . Good Lord! Babington is to marry?!’

‘And marry Miss Denham?! Well I never. . . I’ll be . . . ‘ Sir Samuel stammered. ‘I’ll be . . . damned!’

Sidney grinned and shook his head, then finally seeing a footman with a tray of full glasses, he waved him over. 

‘Is there claret?’ Sidney asked. The footman smoothly rotated the tray towards him. ‘Thank you. Mary, may I get you a glass?’

Sir Samuel and the Colonel then both immediately remembered their manners and apologised for their shocking language to a highly amused Mary Parker.

Lieutenant Cornell, meanwhile, remained silent as he watched the dancers, eyes resting on Miss Denham and Lord Babington when they were within his sightline. Miss Denham’s movements seemed to have become softer, gentler now that she was partnered by Lord Babington. Cornell had a feeling he would be spending the rest of his evening wondering what it would feel like to have a lady dance with him like that. Look at him like that.

‘ _How_ is it that you are here?’ Babington asked again as they came together in the dance.

‘Sidney wrote and invited Mary,’ Esther said calmly as though the past day had not been spent in a flurry of packing and travel. ‘Mary then invited me. She said Sidney had advised her that my presence might be a welcome distraction.’

‘For herself or for him?’ Babington asked, laughing.

‘Either,’ Esther said lightly as they moved around one another. ‘Perhaps both? Unless you find yourself distracted, Lord Babington?’ She turned and looked at him, her eyes bright, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

‘ _Thoroughly_ distracted, Miss Denham.’ Babington smiled.


	16. SIXTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.

* * *

‘. . . _Harry_ ,’ Esther sighs. She turns her head towards Babington and he smiles, dips and places a light, lingering kiss to her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. But Esther frowns, tilts her chin and presses her nose against his neck. Breathes him in as she closes her eyes and groans in pleading frustration.

Esther is blissfully at the mercy of her husband’s touch. Babington devilishly beckoning and calling responses from her body with his finger and thumb as he has done many times over the handful of weeks they have been married. This time however, Babington seems to have been purposefully building Esther’s pleasure with an exasperating slowness. But finally, Esther is beginning to feel the edge approaching and she exhales sharply with relief, smiling against Babington’s shoulder in anticipation.

‘Trust me,’ Babington whispers and suddenly he softens his touch on her, within her, to an almost nothing of a caress.

‘Har -‘ Esther’s breath stutters and her words catch in her throat. Her eyes snap open and she stares up at Babington in surprise, her hand grasping his shoulder. ‘Harry!’ Esther’s back arches slightly and her head tilts back as her heightened senses climb over each other in desperation for something, anything to respond to but they find nothing and she is left ragged breathed, unsatisfied.

‘Trust me,’ Babington’s voice is low, calm against her raging confusion. His thumb remaining on her, his finger inside her but they are barely a whisper of a presence.

Damn him! Esther’s mind shouts as her breath pants rapidly and her hand drops from Babington’s shoulder, her body falls back on to the bed. She growls and moans as her scattered senses try to regather themselves.

For all that she may very fervently wish her husband to be wholly damned in this moment, Esther does trust Babington. Completely. With herself and with her body. Esther had not known the possibilities of pleasure that existed within her body until her marriage. It had been Babington who bought her knowledge of it with his sure, clever fingers. Then with his warm mouth. His _damnably_ clever tongue.

Esther sighs again, her head rolling back on the pillow, her uneven breaths softening. Deep, languid. She can feel herself responding to the gentler, hum of pressure of Babington’s thumb and slow soft curling of his finger. Esther smiles, if her body has forgotten the physical frustration Babington caused just now then maybe, just maybe, she will too. She bites her lip and looks up at her husband, reaching up to trail her fingers over his cheek.

‘Trust me,’ Babington smiles.

Esther frowns, Surely, surelynot now? Not when she _knows_ she is closer than she was before. Then Esther’s eyes widen with realisation and she gently splays her hand across Babington’s cheek, clumsily pleading even as she feels his touch lessen once more.

‘. . . harry _,’_ more breath than word.

‘Trust me,’ Babington’s lips brush against Esther’s trembling cry of denial.

Damn him _._ DAMN him! 

One day, when she is feeling emboldened, Esther has resolved she will ask Babington how it is he knows about the intimate sensations her body is capable of, knows exactly the place within her that responds with such intensity to his touch. Was it learned with a lover? Taught by a courtesan? Or was this what was spoken of in smoke filled taprooms and gentlemen's clubs? She does not care which, but she would know how these things are known by men.

In this moment, however, her complete trust in her husband has Esther unable to think of anything but the promise of pleasures Babington has made, and she hungrily responds when he presses his mouth to hers. If kisses are all her husband will give her for the moment then she will take all that he has. She moves closer to him, now more under him than next to him, feels his heartbeat as her own.

‘Esther,’ Babington’s voice is deep, low, hot against her lips. He tempts her with more kisses, sensual, long, and Esther’s intended growl of frustration becomes a pleading whimper as Babington’s kisses linger and deepen but he makes no alteration to the now tortuously slow, barely present, movement of his thumb and finger.

‘Trust me,’ barely a murmur. Husky, promising.

His touch on her momentarily stops completely.

DAMN. HIM. 

OH, but Esther _will_ learn from Babington how to have his body plead, just as he now has hers sublimely pleading, tremulously begging. She would know more too, discover with him all the pleasures granted in whatever contract of soul and body humanity made at creation. For both Babington and herself. Know more how to please and pleasure him, not only take his hard length in her hand as she has begun to do this past week or so but be bold enough to place her mouth on him, feel him against her tongue. Know him.

Babington’s kisses drift across Esther’s cheek, encouraging her to tilt her head away from him so that he can press his warm mouth to that soft place just beneath her ear. Esther gasps at the welcome new sensation.

Then she feels Babington’s tongue on her pulse.

Esther moans, tilts her head further back. She reaches to place her hand against his head, hold him against her. 

Maybe, as he presses his mouth and tongue against Esther’s thundering heartbeat on her neck, maybe Babington increases the pressure in his touch of finger and thumb. Perhaps. Just for a half of a moment.

  
‘Harry _. . .’_ A sudden rush of breaths. Moaning, stuttering as Esther's body responds both to Babington now and to the memory it has of another, more intimate pulse of her under his mouth, his tongue. A chaos of almosts and edges of sensations. '. . . _Please.'_

A brief, light tremor of pure bliss shivers over Esther, hurrying her plea with stammers and stutters. Babington groans as the tremor shimmers under his thumb and pulses around his finger. He aches to take her. _Christ_ does he want her now. Especially when she pleads like that. Esther on the edge of her climax, naked, breathless and trembling under his touch is an intimacy Babington would tear the world down for. But the intimacy of hearing her plead . . . _Christ._

 _  
  
_Esther gives up all of herself as her senses start to pirouette. ‘ _Please.’_ Pleading with her body. Pleading with her husband. _‘. . . please . . ‘_

Babington’s touch is now all instinct.

There is the clear nothing of the moment before everything and Esther _knows_ Babington will not slow or stop his touch this time. Every nerve, every sense, every emotion of herself now responds to him as one and, finally, pleasure comes over her as though an incoming tide. Continuous. For countless, endless moments.

It ebbs slightly only to overlap itself and come again.

‘. . . harry.’

  
Aware of nothing. Aware of everything.

And again.

‘. . . _Harry!’_

She is alive with the abandonment and bliss of it. Laughing almost with disbelief and pure joy.

It ebbs one final time with a slow gentleness of silk slipping though her hands.

A few moments of stillness.

Esther sighs deeply, opens her eyes, her breaths coming fast and quick stammer her words. ‘D-Damn. Y-You. Husband,’ she says. Clumsily, slowly Esther places a hand on Babington’s chest, looks up at him. She smiles. Sighs again. ‘ _D-_ _Damn_ you!' 

Babington laughs and dips his head to press a shaky breathed kiss to her cheek, her mouth, his heart pounding under Esther’s palm. She lifts her chin to keep his mouth on hers, deepen the kiss and her breath hitches as Babington gently takes his hand from her then she sighs as he slips his arm under her, around her waist. She can taste her husband's need, feel the heat of it thrumming in his body as he holds her close against him.

‘You. Harry.’ A breath, a satiating sigh, between each of Esther's words. She puts her hands on his shoulders, strokes her fingers over his skin as she moves under him.

She is Babington's to have. The pleasure he created in her his to know. Always his.

‘ _Esther.’_ The need Babington was holding back now has its freedom and the intensity of it has him breathless against Esther’s smiling kisses. 

His hardness deep inside her, her body a heat of tightness around him.

He groans.

Esther’s limbs are still trembling a little, weak and her hands slide from Babington’s back to fall either side of her. Babington reaches, takes each of her hands in his, clasping and unclasping fingers, pressing palm to palm as his head drops to Esther’s shoulder.

_‘You,_ Harry.’ Esther gasps. Deeply, gloriously in love with just how much she is his.

And he knows it. He can feel it. 

The hedonism of her closeness, her tightness, is his to have.

The ecstasy of her warmth, her heat, his to take.

‘. . . _Esther.’_


	17. SEVENTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.

* * *

Just FYI!

Set sometime in between the Midsummer Ball and Esther and Babington's wedding.

* * *

‘I love you, Babington.’

She had not said that before.

Babington steeled himself and dared himself to glance at the woman walking beside him. Esther was not looking at him. Her pace did not slow, her hand on his arm did not alter in pressure or position, her eyes remained on the path and trees in front of them. But her chin was tilted upwards slightly giving her an air of confidence and surety. Defiance almost.

Babington casually looked away, wondered if Esther could feel his suddenly pounding heartbeat thundering in his veins under her fingers on his arm. He had allowed himself to begin to hope this past week. Esther had started to seek him out more, quietly take his arm or hand, gently kiss him. More than that, once or twice, he had caught Esther looking at him questioningly, intently.

‘If I pretended I did not hear that,’ Babington said lightly, still not looking at her. ‘Would you say it again?’

‘Babington.’ Esther growled.

‘Esther,’ Babington smiled. He finally stopped walking and turned to face her, unable to hide his delight not only at what she had said but also, now, his amusement at her mild exasperation. His smile grew wider as he looked at her, her eyes bright with defiant certainty. She _had_ meant what she said. Had meant for him to hear it.

‘Do you wish for me to scale the façade and declaim it from the roof?’ Esther asked, indicating the house behind Babington.

Now confident, Babington cocked his head to one side and half turned away from Esther to look at the house and then back to her, seeming to give her proposal a thorough consideration.

‘Babington!’ Esther tried to scowl at him, but Babington grinned and shrugged and she found she could not muster the will to do so. She sighed instead, quirked an eyebrow at him and took a deep breath. Stepping a little closer Esther took Babington’s hands in hers and tipped her face up to look him directly in the eye.

‘I love you, Babington.’ The words had murmured with growing certainty in Esther’s heart and head for a while now, but she had feared saying them, thinking it would feel weakening, exposing to say out loud. Yet, for the last few days, perhaps week, Esther had found she had cared less about that and more about wanting Babington to know and so had said the words in spite of herself, against herself. For him. But, looking at Babington as she said it, Esther felt stronger, complete. Herself.

Her _own._

A bubble of laughter built up inside her at the reticence that seemed so foolish now and Esther smiled, reached up and traced her fingers over Babington’s cheek and along his jaw. She felt his arm slip gently around her waist.

‘I love you,’ Esther said again, quieter this time, never taking her eyes from Babington’s. ‘Harry.’

Babington took her hand in his, lifted it to his lips and lingered a kiss on her knuckles then, slowly, dipped his head and gently kissed her. He grinned and, as Esther laughed, he pulled her very close to him. Esther, alive with her new confidence, wrapped her arms around Babington’s shoulders and pressed herself against him, responded to him as his kisses deepened. As over the past few weeks, the nearer to Babington Esther was when he held her, when they kissed like this, the freer she felt. She loved this man. It was heady, empowering. Fantastically dangerous. 

‘I feel I should assure you, Miss Denham,’ Babington smiled against her lips. ‘That I return your feelings.’ Esther laughed and kissed him.

Babington pulled back for a moment, looked at her. He smiled, carefully caught a curl of Esther’s hair pulled free by the breeze and tucked it behind her ear. ‘I love you, my darling,’ he said and dipped his head again to meet her kiss. ‘With all and everything I am, I love you.’


	18. EIGHTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon Admin:
> 
> Babington's name - Frederick Henry (I mean his sister is called Augusta after all) but everyone calls him Harry.
> 
> Mayfair - location of Babington's London House
> 
> Hampshire - location of Babington's Country Estate

* * *

Two weeks after their wedding, Esther and Babington returned to London and the Mayfair townhouse. Society was curious to meet the new Lady Babington and days were quickly filled with a politeness of calls and visits, evenings with a noise of balls and suppers.

Initially, Esther regarded the maelstrom around her and fuss over her new title with an aloofness and calm wit that agitated and amused in equal measure.

* * *

A crowded ballroom in the expansive home of a member of London’s very smartest set, the floor busy with couples.

‘Lady Babington is aloof, but not in all things. Just see how she looks at her husband.’ The dancers were moving quickly. Esther in amongst them, fleet footed in Babington’s hold, did not see who it was who spoke. Indeed, she only just about heard what they said. ‘You can tell how much she loves him.’ 

Esther momentarily fumbled her hold on Babington’s hand.

‘I love you,’ were words that Esther had long known could be felt as well as heard and spoken. But she had discovered with Babington that ‘I love you’ could also be a wordless certainty and, in the days following her marriage, Esther had given herself up entirely to this new deep, pure emotion. ‘I love you’ was theirs and, for the two perfect weeks following their marriage when they had lived in a world they indulgently created and recreated for themselves by the moment, it had been theirs alone.

Suddenly, in the crowded, noisy ballroom Esther and Babington’s ‘I love you’ did not just belong to them anymore. Carefully, Esther reached out for it and held it close to her against the scrutiny of others. It was still whole, complete, part of a larger feeling Esther had not yet named.

Later, in the privacy and intimacy of night, it was gloriously there with all its unspoken depth and purity in the whisper of rapid breaths on skin, the kisses broken with gasps and sighs.

* * *

A boisterous rout a few evenings later.

‘. . . give me a difficult chase over an easy catch any day _._ Ladies who are all ice and mystery can be caught and, when you do catch them and set them to your wick gentlemen, they melt good and _hard.’_

Esther was crossing the busy saloon with Lady Susan who, over-hearing this statement from a drunken young man to his friends, merely smiled, tutted and continued her smooth navigation. Esther however, being a half step behind Lady Susan, heard the denouement that followed. ‘I’ll wager that wintery regal lady wife of Babington’s loves it when he takes her to bed and _makes_ her melt.’

Esther’s heart stuttered as the young man’s friends laughed with callous disregard, too absorbed in themselves and their wine to notice her. The words did not shock her, she had heard similar from Clara. Worse from Edward. But these were about her and they shamed her. Suddenly Esther could feel Babington’s countless loving, passionate kisses become humiliatingly public, each one now a tell-tale stain on her body of her love, her pleasure, her want. A dizziness swirled through her and Esther had to force herself to concentrate on following Lady Susan’s smooth path.

* * *

That night, Esther’s breaths became luxurious with long sighs as Babington began to trail his kisses slowly down her neck, flow his hand over her stomach and hips. But . . .

‘Wait,’ Esther whispered, defying her building desire. ‘Wait, Babington . . . please.’

‘Esther?’ Babington made to move his hand away, but Esther caught it before he could and wrapped her arm with his across her body.

‘. . . I’m . . . it’s not, it’s- ’ but Esther did not want to have to find the words that named what she had felt in the saloon, nor speak the reason for it. Instead, she gently traced her fingers over Babington’s concerned brow, followed the line of his lips with her fingertips.

‘Just . . . just, this,’ Esther reached up and kissed him. ‘This.’ She smiled and then kissed him again, longer, encouraging him and hoping to reassure him. ‘Just for tonight?’

‘My darling,’ Babington said softly. ‘Anything. Nothing. Just you here. Always know that.’

Esther swallowed the gasp of tears that threatened but could not prevent one that trickled down her cheek.

‘Esther!’ Babington said gently.

‘Tired,’ Esther smiled.

Babington allowed the explanation, although he did not believe it, and carefully moved Esther against him and held her.

* * *

It was late when they woke the next day. The room softly bright with clear, broad sweeps of morning sunlight. As their chaste kisses slowly deepened and lingered, Esther found herself believing that maybe it was just fatigue that caused her anguish last night. Babington’s kisses were promises made and kept within the same moment, his touch had the fidelity of a husband as well as the passion of a lover. There was no shame in her desire for him.

Esther stopped thinking, let herself just feel and, as Babington slowly made love to her within the never-ending tangle of bedclothes the as yet unspoken feeling deep in Esther’s heart and soul began to name itself.

More than desire and want. More than ‘I love you.’ More.

* * *

When Babington asked again about the night before Esther, lazily naked in his arms, smiled at him and, this time, he almost believed her when she just shrugged, kissed him and sighed ‘Tired.’

Babington held her close, pressed his lips to her forehead as she settled against him.

I love you. Esther felt it. Knew it.

I’m in love with you. Esther silently and very cautiously, let the feeling name itself.

* * *

‘Oh of course they are in love!’ It was a night or so later. Another ball, another crowded floor. ‘Babington obviously adores her, and Lady Babington is _clearly_ in love with him. You would have to be blind not to see it!’

Esther mistimed her next step and almost stumbled.

They had seen that she loved him.

They had seen she desired him.

Now, suddenly the ‘I’m in love with you’ that had been entirely hers and that she had not said out loud yet, felt ripped from her. Shown to all.

A sickening wave of memory that Esther had forced down before now overtook her. Clara’s observation of her feelings for Edward. Edward’s outburst at the Midsummer Ball. People looking and seeing and knowing.

Babington’s hand steadied her elbow, his fingers rested momentarily at her waist. Esther could feel his concern and it took everything, all the experience from those years of guarding herself from the eyes of others for Esther to recover her poise just a moment after she lost it and look her husband in the eye.

She did not know if he had heard what she had, but when Esther dismissed her stumble as a foot caught on hem, she could tell Babington did not believe her. She never lost her footing.

As the next few days hurried past and the evenings rioted through midnights and into dawns, Babington realised Lady Esther Babington’s aloof calm when in society was beginning to have echoes of Miss Esther Denham’s cold detachment.

* * *

The end of their second week in London.

‘I thought we could maybe go to Sanditon for a few days,’ Babington said. Part question, part suggestion. Maybe if they got out of London for a while . . . Babington wasn’t sure how that thought finished.

Esther hummed but did not move from where she was stood at the window in their bedroom, half turned away from him. One arm folded across her waist, her bent elbow cradled in her hand, her fingers resting under her chin.

‘Esther?’ Babington asked gently.

‘Yes,’ Esther said quietly, evenly. ‘If you like, Babington.’

‘Or maybe back to Hampshire if you prefer?’ Babington continued, taking a step towards her. She had felt so far away from him this past day or so. ‘We could go tomorrow, or-‘

‘We just got here, Babington,’ Esther glanced at him briefly, frowned at his apparent absurdity.

‘Esther-‘

‘Besides,’ Esther continued. ‘You need to be in London for Sidney, Babington. The investments.’

‘Esther-‘

Esther suddenly took a deep breath and turned towards him, her arms dropping away from her body, her fingertips pressing against the window to steady herself as she looked at him.

‘What do you see when you look at me, Babington?’

The tilt of her chin, the challenge in her eyes, Babington took an involuntary step backwards.

‘ _They_ see me, this mob of London’s finest,’ Esther gestured with her free hand to some imagined audience across the room. Her fingers pressed harder against the windowpane, almost shaking with the pressure. ‘They see that-‘ Esther swallowed and looked away for a moment, but then the anger at her exposure rose again and the words came snapping from her. ‘They see that I love you. They see that I desire you. And you, oh _you_ are not spared from them either!’

Babington frowned.

‘Apparently you adore me,’ the words were cruel, spiteful from Esther. Not towards him but towards the people who looked and saw and spoke of something that was so precious to her, so private.

‘I _do_ adore you, Esther!’ Babington could not help but laugh. He stepped towards her again. ‘You _know_ that!’

‘It is not _theirs_ to speak of!’ Esther’s body was tense with the anger of her exposure, her eyes flashed again.

‘Esther,’ Babington said, calmly but so very gently. ‘I’m in love with you. I love you. I don’t care who knows.’

There it was. That absolute certainty of self of Babington’s that Esther had circled around and then drawn strength from in the early days of their engagement.

Esther stared at him as her mind raced. She had felt exposed because she loved him, desired him, was in love with him. Exposed because love had been a shameful, private secret between herself and her heart. Something to be hidden. Until him.

‘When I look at you,’ Babington continued. ‘I see the woman I love. I see _you_ Esther.’

‘I – I,’ Esther did not manage to swallow the gasp of tears this time. She had been pushing people away these last few days, thinking she was punishing them for their observations when all the while she had been punishing herself and this beautiful man.

‘My darling,’ Babington closed the distance between them and felt the tension leave Esther as she leant into his embrace.

Esther pressed herself against Babington and then looked up at him. ‘I love you,’ she said. The words coming easier now, even though she had spoken them before.

Babington smiled gently, brushed away a tear from her cheek. ‘I know.’

Esther laughed despite her tears. That _damn_ absolute certainty of her husband’s! She smiled and tipped her chin. ‘I’m in love with you, Harry.’


End file.
